Silent Night
by WitchGirl
Summary: While Greg and Catherine are distracted by their own problems on Christmas Eve, Sara unwittingly finds herself walking into a trap. Greg and Catherine have to trust each other and be savvy enough to fool the two teens who are threatening their friend.
1. Family Secrets

Silent Night

**Summary:** A hateful family secret reduced to blood spatter on the walls of a family's living room. Greg, Sara and Catherine find themselves caught in a haunting, tangled web of misery, jealousy and fear. And worst of all, it's Christmas Eve, and the Las Vegas Crime Lab were hoping for a break.

_**Author's Note:**_ This fic will deal with relationships and family of all varieties (from abusive to nurturing, from homosexual to heterosexual, from friends to lovers, etc.) so just a heads up there. Now that I've said the "H" word let me tell you slashers that if a character is not (outwardly) gay on the show, then the character will not be gay here, which means none of your typical Nick/Greg or Cath/Sara etc slash like that (sorry). Character ships are in the exploratory phase so I'm just going to see how it develops (Grillows, GSR, Snickers, Sandle, and even Cath/Greg are running laps in my brain and I can't choose one). Feel free to root for your ship in reviews, I don't really care (but don't necessarily expect me to write it just because you asked me to). Namely, this story started off being something and turned into something completely different. It became a social commentary on family and trust and goes into minutely touchy issues, but not into grave detail so it's only rated T. In a way, it's a tragic love story of sorts. Who's in love? Well, I have only one definitive "couple" in my mind and as stated, the rest are just floating around in my head.

To Faithful Readers: Chapters are shorter for this story, about half my normal length (four to five pages as opposed to the regular six to eight). Also, I know I haven't posted all of Night Bleeds, but it will be done (have I ever let you down?)

Chapter One: Family Secrets

The festive music played loudly in the break room. Eartha Kitt's husky voice curling around the notes of 'Santa Baby' filled the lab. Sara was on the couch with Nick, flipping through channels on the TV looking for _It's A Wonderful Life_. Catherine and Warrick clutched their mugs as they laughed together watching Greg playing his new game that the others decided was best not to participate in.

Greg pushed off from the table and sailed backwards across the room on the swivel chair as he made aim for the trash can and launched the paper ball at it, scoring nothing but net. He raised his arms in triumph and smiled wildly, until he felt the chair hit something soft that let out an 'oof.'

Cold fear drenched him like a bucket of water as the figure loomed over him, casting a shadow into the room that Greg knew was unmistakable. He saw Catherine's eyebrows shoot up and Warrick leaned over and turned off the music.

"Greg? What are you doing?"

Greg tilted his head up towards the ceiling until he saw his supervisor looking down at him quizzically upside down. Greg slowly grinned sheepishly. "Made up a game," he said. "Call it Space Jam. Like the movie. 'Cause it sounds cool. Wanna play?"

Grissom looked up at the rest of his team, who all looked a little guilty. "What's going on in here?"

"Impromptu Christmas party," Catherine explained, pouring some amber liquid into a fresh mug and approaching Grissom casually. "Care for some cider?"

Grissom forced a smile and shook his head. He looked down at Greg, who was still staring up at him. "You have a case," he said simply, and dropped the file onto Greg's lap. Greg's fingers curled around the manila envelope and he opened the file.

"What's this?"

"Sneaky Santa," Grissom said. Catherine withdrew the offered mug, and Sara turned off the TV, but Greg snorted. "Something funny, Greg?"

"That name always gets me. I mean, doesn't sound very threatening, does it?" Greg asked, looking up at Grissom upside down again. "It gives me the image of a fat guy in a big red suit walking around on tip toes like some cartoon character."

"I didn't choose the name, the media did," Grissom said. "And you're on the case now."

Greg's eyes lit up. "No _way_!" he said, pulling his knees up onto the swivel chair and twisting around to face Grissom properly. "Me? Why?"

"Because," Grissom said simply. "If I don't put you on a case, I know you'll be in here all night playing 'Space Jam.'" He looked up at Catherine, who was watching the pair with inquisitive blue eyes. "Catherine, you go with him. I heard it's a blood bath in there and he'll need some help."

Greg looked at the file in his hand with renewed vigor, as if he held some precious stone. "Wow… This is big, Grissom…" he said, awestruck. "A high profile case…" All of a sudden, he looked up from the file and his eyes were eager. "Do I get to talk to the press???"

Grissom chuckled, amused by his enthusiasm. "Try to keep them at bay, and if they do try to talk to you, refer them to Catherine please."

Greg's face fell. "Oh, come on," he said, looking over his shoulder at Catherine. She stood there with her arms folded, looking at him skeptically. Greg turned back to Grissom and leaned in close before he whispered, "Catherine's hot and all, but we all know I have the face for TV."

"You have a face for radio," Grissom said, loudly, making the others chuckle. "You're there to do your job, not look pretty for the cameras."

Greg scowled at him before jumping off the chair and pushing it back to the table by the fridge. Warrick caught it as it swerved toward the couch and redirected it under the table.

"So are you guys just going to keep partying without us?" Greg asked them. Sara shrugged and winked playfully, and Nick turned on the TV again.

"It's a slow night," Grissom admitted. "Odd, for Christmas Eve."

"I know, suicide capital of the year as it is," Greg agreed. He turned to Catherine and grinned broadly at her. "I am so ready for this."

But as it turned out, Greg had spoken to soon. The notes of 'Rocking Around the Christmas Tree' drifted into his ears as he pushed open the door and scanned the room.

_Rocking around the Christmas tree at the Christmas party house…_

The Christmas tree was fully decorated and very large, filling up most of the room even though it was placed in the corner. The wall next to it was so completely painted in crimson it almost looked intentional, for festivity's sake. But that didn't bother him. It was the bodies, and the manners in which they had been killed that bothered him.

"What's the matter, Greg?" Catherine asked as she came in behind him. "You act like you've never seen a murder scene before."

She moved past him and frowned, shaking her head sadly as she kneeled down next to the body of a little girl with curly dirty blonde hair. "Wow. He really does kill the whole family, doesn't he? Look, there's a camera, and the little girl's in her best dress. They must have been taking a family photo…"

Catherine rose to her feet and looked at the walls and ceiling. "Spatter patterns over there say that they were huddled here by the wall and shot execution style…" She bit her lip. "The ornaments on the tree over here are disturbed… Some presents look to be missing… But he never steals from his victims…"

It seemed that she only became aware of Greg's silence then and she frowned at him. "Greg, are you OK? You look really pale."

His mouth, which had been hanging open, shut instantly and he nodded. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I'm good."

"You get the kids," Catherine said, gesturing at the blonde girl and her older brother. "I'll take care of mom and dad."

_You will get a sentimental feeling when you hear voices singing let's be jolly! Deck the halls with bows of holly…_

"Uh… right…" Greg said absently, approaching the young girl. He kneeled down next to the little girl, whose brains were plastered on the wall at which her body lay. He looked up at the wall and saw that the spatter patterns looked like tiny crimson stars in a white sky, the biggest of which had droplets dripping down to the girl's body. Disgusted, he thought of a perverse Nativity scene, the bloody star marking the spot where this slaughtered angel lay lifeless. He pushed a curl of her hair back from her face. It was incredible how much she resembled Lucy. It scared him. A lot.

He swallowed. "Cath, uh, maybe you should do the kids."

"Hm?" Catherine looked up from taking fingernail scrapings of the father. "Something the matter?"

"Uh…" Greg looked down at the dead girl again. The song continued to play.

_Rocking around the Christmas tree, have a happy holiday. Everyone dancing merrily in the new old-fashioned way…_

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I can't do this." He got to his feet and took a deep breath, looking over at Catherine who was watching him quizzically, still kneeling by the tree over the father's body.

She opened her mouth to speak. "Greg, I…"

But he missed what she said next because his heart fluttered as he noticed an ornament on the tree swinging ominously on the branch. Catherine wasn't anywhere near enough to have brushed the tree. Something dark was behind the tree in the corner. But he couldn't make it out, the tree was too full of branches…

"… hard sometimes, kids and all, it took me some time to—"

"Sh…" he said suddenly, putting a finger to his lips. His eyes didn't leave the swinging ornament on the Christmas tree.

She frowned at him as she rose to her feet slowly. "Greg…?"

"Who cleared the scene?" he asked, suddenly very worried.

Catherine looked out the window over her shoulder where red and blue lights were flashing through. "A few officers, they cleared it long before we got—"

It all happened so fast, if Greg hadn't been half-expecting it, he would have been completely defenseless. As it was, at the first sign of movement from behind the tree, he drew his gun, even as the suspect grabbed Catherine by the neck as she looked out the window and held a knife to her throat.

"Freeze!" Greg yelled, his voice cracking as Catherine's hands flew up to pull at the man's wrist. Her teeth were clenched, and she looked positively livid, obviously more annoyed than frightened.

But Greg was terrified, even as he choked up his hold on his gun, trying to aim it at the suspect's head, which was covered in nylon so he couldn't make out his face. But he was using Catherine pretty effectively as a shield and Greg knew he couldn't shoot. Catherine's nails dug into the hand that restrained her, but her virulent expression faded as the suspect whispered something in her ear.

Greg didn't like secrets. "Hey!" he shouted, wondering if the suspect even knew he was there. "Hey, let her go!" He didn't know what to say other than that. He wasn't used to handling a gun outside of his required training, and he didn't arrest people. Where the hell was Brass when you needed him? "Hey! You! Um… Drop the girl!"

But the suspect continued to ignore Greg as he hissed like a snake into Catherine's ear and all the while, her expression faded from anger… to confused unease. As he spoke, her grip on his wrist lessened as she listened to him. She seemed to relax momentarily, her expression stony. With nothing but body language to tell him what was going on, Greg had no idea how to respond.

And then, suddenly, the words came to him. He marveled at his idiocy before shouting as loud as he possibly could, "Suspect on the scene! Suspect on location!"

And then, the suspect hissed in her ear again, and the fury returned with a vengeance and she was struggling again. The knife pressed more sharply against her throat and a bead of blood dribbled down her neck.

"For the love of _God_, somebody help!" Greg screamed again.

The suspect seemed to finally notice Greg was in the room and looked up at him. And while he was distracted, Catherine's leg snaked around the suspect's foot and she tripped him before elbowing him in the gut. He pushed her to the floor and she fell onto her hands and knees as he doubled over in pain. She rolled onto her back and drew her gun, but by the time she did, he had run out of the living room.

Catherine was staring wide-eyed after him as a few cops came into the house and pursued the suspect. Catherine looked back at Greg.

"Why the _hell_ didn't you shoot him?!" she demanded.

Greg stuttered. "I… I… I don't know!" he finally exclaimed defensively. "You were kind of in the way, in case you weren't paying attention!"

"I mean _after_ that," Catherine said, out of breath. She dusted herself off and got to her feet, wiping the blood on her neck onto her sleeve. "When he threw me down and made for the exit?"

"I was kind of stunned, that's all," Greg said, feeling like she was attacking him. He holstered his gun and nodded at her. "You should get that wound checked out."

Catherine winced as she touched the cut with her finger, but shrugged it off. "It's just a scratch, I'll be fine. Jesus, what'd they do, have a rookie clear this scene? I'm going to go talk to Brass and find out who the hell is running this circus." She made for the door when Greg called after her.

"What did he say to you?"

Greg couldn't see her face, but Catherine froze in the doorway between the living room and the entrance hall. She seemed to wince, as though she had hoped he wouldn't ask that question at all.

"Nothing," she said. "Empty threats."

"Catherine…"

"You just process the scene," Catherine said, spinning around with her hand clapped against the wound on her throat. "I can't be here, I'll bleed all over the crime scene. You OK to do it alone?"

Alone… Greg looked down that the corpses of the family of four and it sent chills down his spine. No, he wouldn't be OK to be with them alone. But Catherine was obviously shaken, and she was right about the blood contaminating evidence. He couldn't ask her to stay. "Yeah," he said, forcing his trademark smile. "Me and the corpses will have a party."

She smiled wanly, still rubbing her neck. "Thanks, Greg," she said, and he knew by the gratitude in her tone that she really meant it.

She left, and Greg wondered what the guy had said to her that had made her stop struggling. He didn't doubt that it was a threat, but regardless of whether it was empty or not, it had bothered her. Still, he and Catherine weren't all that close, and he didn't want to press the matter for fear of setting her off. She had better friends to look after her. In the meantime, Greg needed to focus on his problems.

He decided to start with the parents because they didn't bother him as much as the little girl. He processed the scene as quickly as he could as he listened to the police traipse around the floor above him. And the music. Some version of O Holy Night came on and it began to bother Greg, so he went and turned off the stereo. He hadn't seen the police dragging out the suspect yet. He wondered if they had caught him. They were probably checking all the rooms again to make sure they hadn't missed anyone else.

Greg found it amazing how quickly things could change. Just an hour ago, he had been exuberant. It was Christmas and he had been put on a high profile case. Plus, he had invented an awesome new game that was played on swivel chairs. But then, after walking into this house, it was like he was ten years old again, and his mother's sobbing echoed in his head.

He had never told them _why_ he was an only child. He had used it as an excuse for his parents being overprotective, though. They didn't know that the real reason was because as far as his parents were concerned, after they lost Lucy, Greg was their last hope.

Miscarriage. Miscarriage. Birth. Miscarriage. Birth. And then, the doctors told her if she tried to have another child, it would kill her. But she wanted to so badly. She begged her husband to try. But he loved her too much to risk it, even if it meant sacrificing her dreams. So she settled with two, though she had always wanted so many more.

Greg finished up with the parents and moved to the older brother. He tried not to think about his family as he worked and instead allowed his mind to wander to Catherine and what the suspect might have said to her. The whole event had been enough to distract him from his buried memories. Maybe if he asked her again, maybe if he focused on Catherine, and on the case at hand, he wouldn't have time to remember. He wouldn't have time to think.

Eventually, he finished with the brother too, and all that was left was the girl. He swallowed and took her tiny hand in his, but then he couldn't do it. He couldn't do what he had done to the others. It felt like he would be defiling her somehow. Like she should be in a sacred tomb instead of lying haphazardly on the carpet like she was. He bit his lip. Catherine was gone, moreover, Catherine was wounded. He had to do this on his own. He had to separate his personal life from his work. He had done it before, there was no reason why it should be difficult…

But it _was_ difficult. Every move he made was like moving a two ton boulder. Fingernail scrapings, hair combing, gunshot residue, even the crime scene photos were hard to take. But he did it. Because it was his job to do it. And he was damn good at his job.


	2. Aftershocks

**_Author's Note:_** I'm pleasantly impressed by all the insightful feedback I received on the first chapter. I'm writing two stories at the moment, so when I finish the first one, posting for this will be much more regular.

* * *

Chapter Two: Aftershocks

Catherine stepped out of the house with wild eyes, still rubbing her neck as she searched for Brass among the crowd. Cameras flashed and she closed her eyes tight, annoyed at the media and they way they gobbled up gory murders like this. Finally, she saw Brass having a stern word with what looked to be the chief of police. She walked over to them and he saw her, and opened his mouth to speak.

She hushed him by holding up her hand. "Who the hell cleared this scene?" she demanded.

The chief turned around, looking offended. "Look, I sent three officers in there, they told me the scene was clear."

"Yeah, well, it wasn't," snapped Catherine, rubbing her neck more fiercely. She was still bleeding. She needed to see to that. She pulled her hand away and saw it was red.

"Catherine!" Brass grabbed her upper arm sternly and she looked up at him, a little dazed.

"Huh?"

"What the hell happened to you?" he asked, staring at her wide-eyed.

Catherine looked at her bloody hand, then up at Brass. "Oh. This. Nothing, the bastard cut me. Greg didn't shoot. Did you get him yet?"

"You're bleeding pretty bad," Brass said, walking her away from the chief of police. "Grissom will never let me hear the end of this…"

"It wasn't your fault," Catherine said, allowing Brass to take her wherever he wanted. "So a few incompetent officers forgot to check behind the Christmas tree. I mean, who _would_ check behind a Christmas tree anyway? I sure wouldn't."

Brass was beckoning someone over and Catherine turned to see it was a paramedic by the ambulance. "Oh— no," Catherine said, shaking her head. "It's not that deep, really."

"It may not be deep," Brass said. "But it doesn't have to be."

"What's the trouble?" the paramedic asked as he jogged over to them.

"Suspect cut her throat," Brass explained needlessly.

The paramedic nodded. "OK," he said. "Come here, ma'am, we can put some antiseptic on it and try and stop the bleeding." He led her over to the ambulance and sat her down on the edge of the back of it. Brass eyed her warily as the medic tended to her wound.

"So what went down, exactly?" Brass asked. "I just heard Greg yelling and saw our boys go in there. Is Greg OK?"

Catherine nodded. "He's a little jumpy, but he'll live. He's processing the scene right now. So this guy jumps out from behind the tree and— is this really necessary?" Catherine looked at the medic who stood right in her line of sight of Brass before forcing her chin up so she had to stare at the ceiling of the ambulance.

"Yes, actually," the paramedic replied. Catherine flinched as the alcohol stung her wound. "Sorry, I should have told you it would sting a little."

"I should have expected it," Catherine said honestly. She continued telling her story to the ambulance ceiling. "So he jumps out from behind the tree and grabs me, holding a knife to my throat. Greg was smart enough to get his gun out right as all this is happening and he tells him to let me go. So he distracts the guy and I trip him and elbow him in the stomach before he takes off and Greg didn't fire after him."

"So when did he cut you in all this?" Brass asked.

"I don't know," Catherine replied. "Somewhere in between him grabbing me and me tripping him. That would be my best guess. Or he could have cut me _after_ he got away because that makes sense too."

"There's no need for that attitude, Catherine," Brass said. "It's a pretty important detail you left out."

She sighed. "Uh… a little before I tripped him, I guess," she said, recalling the words he had hissed into her ear that had made her blood boil. "He's a sick asshole, Brass, I hope you get him."

"They're all sick assholes," Brass said and she heard him put away his notepad.

The paramedic finished cleaning and covering the wound and stepped away from Catherine, looking over his work. "There, I think you'll be alright. You've pretty much stopped bleeding anyway; the bandage is just a precaution. If it gets too red, that means something's wrong, he may have hit your artery, so you should really get that checked out. Otherwise, it didn't look too bad, nothing worse than a papercut."

Catherine rose to her feet. "Thanks," she said. She turned to Brass. "I'm going to go back in there to help Greg out."

"Greg will do fine without you," Brass assured her. "You sit here and rest a bit."

"He was a little shaken up," Catherine told him. "Something about the kids really got to him."

"Well he's going to have to face those demons eventually," Brass said. "If he has you to bail him out every time he's processing a child's body, he's never going to get over it."

Catherine nodded, knowing Brass was right. Still, she felt uneasy leaving Greg in there alone, particularly after what had happened. "Are you sure the area's secure?"

"There are five cops in that house, Catherine," Brass assured her. "He'll be fine."

"Yeah, that's what they told me before we went in," Catherine said. She saw Brass take out his phone. "What are you doing?"

"Calling Grissom," he replied as he held the phone to his ear.

"Don't tell Grissom about this," Catherine pleaded.

But Brass just shrugged as someone answered on the other end. "Gil, it's Jim. Listen, there was a little bit of a scuffle at Greg and Catherine's scene, and I… No, no, they're both perfectly fine… I— _Yes_, of course they cleared the scene, I was told the area was secure, but apparently they missed a spot… I know, I know… No, you don't have to do that, I think they're nearly finished up here anyway and I'm sure Nick and Sara have better things to do. Don't worry, I'll get them both back to you soon enough. Bye." He hung up and looked at Catherine.

"Now he's going to make a big deal out of it," Catherine complained.

"You got your throat slit," Brass said. "Sounds like a big deal to me."

"When you say it like _that_…"

"Excuse me, are you the detective on this case?" a chirpy redhead asked Brass.

He rolled his eyes as he turned to face her. "How did you get past that tape? Get back there, we'll take questions later."

"Whoa, what happened to you?" the reporter asked Catherine upon seeing the bandage around her neck.

"We'll issue a statement when the scene has been released," Brass answered sharply before Catherine could speak.

"Is it true that the suspect was still at the scene?" the reporter asked, still badgering Catherine. "Was someone attacked? Were _you_ attacked? Can I get your name?"

"_No_," Brass said, now taking the reporter by the arm and leading her away from Catherine. "I told you…"

His voice faded as he took the reporter back to the crime scene tape and Catherine saw Greg walking out of the house, carrying his kit. She went over to him. He looked as pale as a ghost and he wasn't smiling. The lack of a smile was more eerie to Catherine than his complexion.

"You OK?" she asked quietly.

And then, the smile returned. "I was going to ask you the same question. Nice neck accessory."

"Shut up," she said. "Did you get everything?"

"Think so," he replied. "I haven't done the perimeter. But it's the Sneaky Santa calling card all over. No forced entry, gunshot to the head, and…" Greg pulled up an evidence bag with lumpy Christmas stockings. "Lumps of coal in the stockings. How annoying is this guy? I mean, not only does he kill you, he also doesn't bring you any cool toys. Lame. The real Santa would at least have the decency to bring you a new Xbox before he killed you."

"I guess we know what you want for Christmas," Catherine said with a smile. "I'll take the perimeter."

"I'll go with," Greg said. "Don't want a repeat of what happened inside."

Catherine nodded. "Sure. Were you OK, processing those kids in there?"

"What did that suspect say to you?" Greg countered coolly, his message obvious.

"Don't ask, don't tell, I get it," Catherine said. "Come on, let's go."

* * *

"Danny _come on!_"

Mickey ran on ahead as Danny stumbled behind him, trying to keep up as he held onto the fruits of their labor. He tripped over a tree root and tasted dirt and blood. He spat it out and wiped his face on his sleeve.

He heard Mickey pause and look back at him. He looked up at Mickey as he panted on his hands and knees. "Can't we just… take a… break?"

"No," Mickey said. "We have to go. Ditch the gun. There were cops all over the place and they've probably spread out into the woods by now."

"But they're looking for one guy, not two!" Danny protested as he sat back on his knees. "Why can't we just pretend we're two kids who snuck into the woods for a smoke?"

"You got any fags on you?" Mickey asked.

"You just love saying that, don't you?" Danny mumbled as he wiped his hands off on his jeans.

"If you don't have any cigarettes then we can't use that excuse, can we?" Mickey pointed out. "Now get up, or you'll get us caught for Christ's sake!" He held out his hand to Danny who looked up at him for a moment. "Come on, I'm not gonna bite." Mickey rolled his eyes. With a sigh, Danny took the proffered hand and let Mickey pull him to his feet. "Get the stuff."

"Yeah, yeah…" Danny mumbled and he reached down and collected the bags. A present had fallen out of one of them and was now covered in dirt, but he just shoved it back into the bag, wondering why Mickey had insisted on killing them as well. By the time he had gathered their trophies, Mickey was miles ahead of him again and Danny scrambled to catch up.

"Hey! Mick, you ever gonna tell me why we just killed a whole family back there?"

Mickey stopped and did an about face. Danny stopped too as he saw with horror that his friend was running right at him. He pushed him down to the ground. He straddled him and covered Danny's mouth with his hand. "Shut the hell up, you idiot!" he hissed. "Do you want to get us caught?"

Danny shook his head fervently, his eyes glistening with terror. And then, quite unexpectedly, Mickey's whole demeanor softened and he took his hand away from Danny's mouth again. He smiled. "Sorry, Dan," he said. "I really am, I know how it is with you and your uncle. But I'm… I'm scared, alright? I'm really on edge here, I mean, this was a big thing we did here, and I just don't want the cops to catch us." He pushed the hair back from Danny's head and then ran his fingers through his hair, lingering for a little longer than Danny would have liked. "You understand, right? You know I would never really hurt you."

Danny nodded again and swallowed. "So why, Mick? You're right, it's risky, riskier than anything we've ever done. We could have just _robbed_ them, Mickey. Why did we kill that family?"

Mickey sighed. "Because it's Christmas Eve," he said. "And they're bound to blame that serial killer that's been going around, right? They can't blame us. I followed those cases like crazy, ever since he first struck on the first of the month, you know. He's hit every house like an advent calendar, one a night, I figured Christmas Eve would be when he ups the number, right? When he hits two houses instead of one. So I chose the house and planted all his signatures. I just hope they buy it."

"What if they don't?" Danny asked. "And why this house? Why did you have to kill that little girl, Mick?"

Mickey looked away, looking almost ashamed in the beams of moonlight that filtered through the trees. "I didn't want to kill her, Danny, I really didn't, but I didn't have a choice. She couldn't tell the cops what she saw, that there were two people, that it wasn't the Sneaky Santa killer…" He trailed off and all of a sudden there was a rumbling beneath them and Mickey fell forward, his face inches away from Danny's as the two boy's gaze locked. Green eyes met ice blue as the ground continued to shake, and the hands which rested on either side of Danny's head dug their fingers into the dirt. And then, a few moments later, it was over.

The two boys just froze there, panting at each other for a moment before a slow grin crawled across Mickey's face. Using the ground as a spring board, he kicked his torso upward with his hands and nearly whooped out loud. "Did you feel that, Danny? That was a sign. That was a sign that everything is going to be all—" He stopped abruptly and was suddenly he was alert, like a guard dog that had heard a sound he wasn't familiar with. His eyes darted left and right. "Get up," he whispered. "They're coming. I see flashlights. Let's go."

"You're on top of me," Danny reminded him, but even as he spoke, Mickey rolled off of him and leapt to his feet, taking off like a jack rabbit again and leaving Danny in the dust. Danny just rolled his eyes as he gathered their stolen goods once more before taking off after his friend. He contemplated the earthquake. Mickey had taken it as a good sign, but Danny felt intrinsically that it was a very bad omen, but what it was trying to forewarn him about, he had no idea.

He knew there was something very important that Mickey wasn't telling him. He had been planning this murder all month, and he felt that maybe he had been planning longer than that. Details had changed. When they would do it, how they would do it, but the one thing that never changed was the target and that's what made Danny believe that it was a vendetta.

He wished Mickey trusted him more. Because Danny trusted Mickey with his life.

That was probably a mistake.


	3. Copy Cat

**_Author's Note:_** I was bored yesterday and made another video trailer for this story. It's linked in my profile if you're interested, or if not then that's fine. Or if you're too lazy to go to my profile: http://www.youtube. com/watch?v(Equal Sign)HgHcIaN-QkY. As usual, remove the space between . com and translate (equal sign) into an actual equal sign. Stupid FFN and linking in stories...

In the meantime, here's chapter three.

* * *

Chapter Three: Copy Cat

Greg and Catherine returned to the lab to see it buzzing with life. It was busier than it had been when they'd left. They saw Grissom talking to Judy. Greg headed over to talk to him when Catherine grabbed his shoulder.

"What?" he asked, but she was looking up at the TV. It was that redheaded reporter that had been asking her questions earlier.

"… victim was Catherine Willows, a Crime Scene Investigator who was ambushed on the scene and held hostage by the suspect, who used her to escape before cutting her throat and throwing her away like dead weight. Ms. Willows received immediate emergency treatment and luckily came out of the event alive, though bleeding profusely."

"That's bullshit!" Catherine exclaimed. "He nicked me, that's all! I'm not even wearing that stupid bandage anymore."

"Yeah!" Greg said, equally annoyed. "They didn't even mention how I awesomely saved your ass."

She turned to him. "Oh _you_ saved my ass? Mr. I-have-a-gun-and-I-_am_-afraid-to-us-it?"

"It all happened really fast, in case you didn't notice, I never had a good shot!" Greg snapped defensively.

"Catherine, Greg!" Grissom said, noticing them staring at the TV. He walked over to them. "How are you feeling?"

Catherine gestured at the TV angrily. "If Brass told that little harlot that I played damsel-in-distress, I swear—"

"I'll take that as an 'I'm fine, thank you.' OK, look, something's come up," Grissom told the two of them.

"What's…" But Greg trailed off as his eyes gravitated to the redheaded reporter again.

"The suspect escaped into the woods behind the house, and police were searching it until a call came in from a neighborhood halfway across town with the same calling card as the serial killer who has come to be known as the Sneaky Santa Killer."

"No way…" Greg said, his jaw dropping. "Copy cat?" he asked Grissom.

"One of them is," Grissom agreed. "There's no way the suspect could have gotten between the two crime scenes that fast. If he was still at the scene when you and Catherine were there, then it's impossible for him to have committed both crimes. Sara, Nick and Warrick are all over there right now. Family of five, this time. One of them was a two-year-old infant, too."

Catherine looked at Greg to see his reaction to this news, but to her surprise he seemed unfazed. "But… but that scene was classic Sneaky Santa, right down to the lumps of coal in the stockings!" Greg argued.

"The problem with high profile cases, Greg, is that there are very few details the media doesn't weasel out of us," Grissom told him, bitterly. "The style of murder, the fact that there's no forced entry, and the lumps of coal was all information released to the public. Someone obviously thought it would be a convenient way to—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Greg said. "Hold on. Rewind. Are you trying to tell me that someone who's _not_ a deranged serial killer planned to kill a happy little family? What sane person would kill a six-year-old-girl?"

"She was nine, Greg," Catherine said quietly.

"Not the point," he snapped angrily, in very un-Greg-like tones. He took a deep breath and sighed. "I'm sorry, Catherine, but I... Grissom... Ugh!" He grabbed his hair with his hands. "I'll be in the break room."

"Not so fast, Greg," Grissom said. "You need to talk to the sketch artist."

"We already gave our statements to Brass!" Greg whined.

"And now you need to give a physical description," Grissom said. "You know all this, Greg why are you acting so..."

"Immature?" Catherine said.

Greg glowered at her. "Watch it," he said.

Catherine and Grissom exchanged looks. "OK..." Grissom said before turning to Catherine. "Do you want to brief me on what exactly happened down there?"

"There's not much to tell," Catherine said, and Greg noticed she was suddenly uncomfortable. "Greg and I were... processing the scene, I was talking to Greg and then he jumped out from behind the tree and grabbed me."

"I saw the ornaments move," Greg said, suddenly calm again in the face of Catherine's unease. "I was... expecting it."

Catherine nodded. "And then he grabbed the knife and held it to my throat and Mr. Drama Queen over here decided his gun was more of a decorative piece than a working tool."

"I bet if you were in my shoes..." Greg mumbled.

"I would have shot him," Catherine said without hesitation. "In the foot, probably. It's distracting enough. And poetic."

Greg folded his arms and pouted.

"Did he say anything to you guys?" Grissom asked. "Do you have... words, a voice, maybe an idea of where he was from or going?"

Greg opened his mouth to reply when Catherine beat him to it. "No, not a word."

Greg stared at her as Grissom looked at him. "Are you sure?"

He dropped his childish pout and nodded, still watching Catherine out of the corner of his eye. "That's how it all went down, yeah."

"OK," Grissom said. "The sketch artist is in the layout room, she'll help you out. I'm going to go talk to Doc Robbins to see if everything is as clear cut with your vics as we think it is."

Grissom disappeared, once again leaving Catherine and Greg alone as they headed for the layout room. "You know," Greg said, "if you're gonna keep getting on my case for not shooting a guy, then I'm going to tell Grissom that you just lied to his face."

Catherine sighed. "I'm sorry..." she said, and Greg was so surprised by the guilt in her voice that he nearly stopped walking entirely. "Look, he... he didn't say anything of consequence, nothing Grissom or anyone else for that matter needs to know about. It won't help the case. It just... bothered me. OK?"

Greg nodded. He also had things that were bothering him, and he had a feeling Catherine knew it was more than just the age of the victims. But he recognized that neither one felt it was quite sharing time yet, and wondered if he would ever know what was whispered in Catherine's ear. If it meant telling Catherine about Lucy, then he was content to let sleeping dogs lie. His desire for his own secrecy outweighed his curiosity.

For now.

* * *

"We need to go to the library," Mickey said. 

Danny groaned and rolled over in his sleeping bag. "Now? What? Why? Mickey, it's nearly Christmas day by now!"

"We need to _go_," Mickey insisted. "The one at the university is open twenty-four hours, come on."

"It's eleven o'clock, Mickey, and I'm _tired_," Danny wined. "You had me up at five this morning, planning all day for your perfect murder."

He heard Mickey crouching down behind him. "I know, Danny," he said in soft tones. "But this is important. It's about those people back at the house, those police-type people."

"They were CSIs Mickey, didn't you see their vests?" Danny yawned.

"I did, I did," Mickey said, excitedly. "And that's exactly why we need to go to the library."

Danny opened his eyes, annoyed. Mickey knew that the way to catch his interest was with a good mystery. He rolled over and propped himself up on his elbow. "OK, fine. I'll ask. What are you talking about?"

Mickey grinned, elated that his plan had worked. "Her name is Willows," he said. "It was on her vest, right? The guy, she called him Greg, he called her Cath, figure it's short for Catherine or something, whatever, it doesn't matter because we have her last name. Anyways, Danny, I did it, I spooked her!"

Danny yawned again. "What'd you say to her?"

"Stuff," Mickey said ambiguously. "You know, the threatening kind of stuff, I used her name, and started making threats, you know, and she totally froze up, and— I gotta tell you, Danny, I think this chick is damaged."

"Damaged how?" Danny asked.

Mickey's eyes darted left and right as though worried he would be overheard and then he leaned in close to Danny before saying in a whisper. "You know— _sexually._"

"Ah, you mean like you are," Danny said.

Mickey hit him. "I'm not _damaged_, you asshole!"

"You think she was raped?" Danny asked.

"May have been, I don't know, do I? That's why we need to go to the library. Google her. Check the papers, whatever, the thing is if she has a history it's on the Internet. Everything is on the Internet these days."

"Why do you care anyway?" Danny asked, stretching. "She's just a chick. Like you put it, a 'police-type person.' She doesn't matter."

"Of course she _matters_ because I _spooked_ her, Danny, don't you _get_ it?" Mickey said excitedly. "If I spooked her, it means I got power over her, and if I got power over her, it means we can _use_ her, ya hear? So if she thinks that I know something really painful about her, she'll do whatever I say. Believe me, I know a thing or two about manipulation and blackmail. Learned it from my old man."

Danny had lost interest and rolled over in his sleeping bag again. "You're nuts. You know that?"

"I'm a genius and you _love_ it," Micky said, mussing up Danny's hair.

"Quit it," Danny muttered sleepily.

Mickey didn't say anything, but he lay down close to Danny and shared his pillow. He wrapped his arms around Danny, who opened his eyes and stared at the side of the old wooden tree house, confused at the thoughts flooding his mind.

"Just you wait, Danny," Mickey whispered in his ear. "We're going to be kings of Las Vegas in no time."

Danny stared at the wall for a long time before he sat up, breaking free of Mickey's embrace. "OK," he said. "Let's go to the library."

Mickey grinned. "That's my boy!"

* * *

Nick followed the notes that floated through the crime lab until he reached the break room and saw Greg with his back to the door. He was leaning back on the hind legs of his chair. His head was tilted as far back as it would go as he crooned along to the country music with his eyes closed. He obviously didn't know the words. Or the pitch. Or the notes. Nick wondered if he was singing along at all, or singing a completely different song. 

Greg opened his eyes and saw Nick. He was so startled that he lost his balance and the chair fell over backwards with a crash. Nick suppressed a chuckle.

"I never had you pegged as a Tim McGraw fan, Greg."

"I'm not," Greg replied stiffly as he rubbed his back and shoulders which had taken the worst of the fall. He sat up and cracked his neck. "I accidentally grabbed this CD from your locker."

"Accidentally," Nick deadpanned.

"Accidentally," Greg repeated. "I'm depressed."

"That's probably the music," Nick reasoned.

Greg stood up and lifted the chair up again. "I thought that's what you do when you're depressed. Listen to country music."

"Was that a specific 'you' or a general 'you'?" Nick asked.

Greg shrugged as he went to turn off the music. "You're Texan, you can't help being backwards."

"What's up?" Nick asked.

"Catherine," Greg replied, and now he had turned serious. He walked past Nick and closed the door to the break room before leaning against it and turning to Nick. "You're friends with her, right?"

"Right, because you and Cath get along like a snake and a mongoose," Nick said sarcastically.

"No, no, no, no, no," Greg said quickly. "No, Cath and I get along swimmingly, I think she's one hell of a gal, but Nick… something's up, and I don't exactly know how to broach the subject."

"Try asking her," Nick suggested.

Greg narrowed his eyes. "Like I didn't think of that."

"You wouldn't," Nick replied.

Greg rolled his eyes. "Look, maybe if someone else asked her, someone she's closer to, she'd talk to you."

"Or maybe she's fine," Nick said. "And even if she's not, people don't talk about things for a reason. You can't press the issue just because you're curious."

Greg thought of his own secrets for a moment. "OK, yeah, I get that, but this has to do with a case."

"It does?" Nick raised his eyebrows, intrigued.

Greg nodded. "You heard what happened at our scene, right? Well… You probably didn't hear the whole story."

"There's more?" Nick asked. "It sounded pretty straightforward to me."

"Yeah, it was," Greg said. "Except for one thing. Catherine didn't tell Grissom, or Brass either probably, but the guy… said something to her. And she won't tell me what it is."

"It's probably inconsequential," Nick said with a shrug. "Like… 'Don't move or I'll kill you' or something. Leave her alone, Greg." He turned to leave, but Greg stopped him.

"No!" he said sharply. Nick turned and eyed him curiously and he sighed. "I mean… You didn't see her, Nick. She was pissed, and then she was… different. And then she was pissed again. It was more than a death threat. I think it was something else."

Nick nodded slowly. "OK," he said. "I'll look into it."

Greg smiled. "Thanks." He turned on the music once more and sat back in his chair to mope again. Nick made to leave then paused at the door and looked at Greg over his shoulder. "Hey… That's all you're depressed about?"

His eyes closed, Greg simply nodded. "Now shut up, I love this part."

Nick rolled his eyes and left. Greg was lying. He seemed focused on Catherine, as though he was trying to distract himself from something… bigger. And if that wasn't enough, Nick had noticed another red flag.

Greg absolutely loathed country music.


	4. Danny's Story

**_Author's Note:_** Curious how Sara ties into this? You'll find out next chapter. ;o) Thanks for reading and reviewing especially, and thanks to all of you who watched the trailer. I thought it was cute.

* * *

Chapter Four: Danny's Story

Danny rested his head on his forearms as he listened to Mickey's fingers on the keyboard, the rhythmic sound of it lulling him to sleep. What conscience he had left wondered if he was supposed to find sleep so easily after helping to murder four strangers in cold blood, but he told it to shut up because he was tired.

"Hm…" Mickey said, jarring Danny from his half-sleep.

"What?" Danny mumbled unhappily.

"Well…" Mickey said. "There's not as much here as I thought there'd be, that's all."

"What did you expect, that all her intimate secrets would be on the Internet for the world to see?" Danny snapped.

"If she was attacked, there would have been a trial…" Mickey murmured.

"Unless she never reported it," Danny said.

"She's a cop, of course she reported it," Mickey returned. "All it says here is that she works for the Crime Lab, and that she associated with big shot Sam Braun, was even there when the old man kicked the bucket… A few newspaper articles, but she's just quoted as a specialist, nothing personal…"

"Maybe she wasn't raped," Danny said, sitting up. "Maybe you're going about this all wrong."

"How else can I go about this?" Mickey demanded. "I'm doing the best I can here, Danny!"

Danny chewed on his lip. "Move," he said, and Mickey obliged as Danny took the keyboard.

"What are you doing?"

"You wanted info on the CSIs," Danny said as he typed a new name into the search field. "And the girl wasn't the only one there."

Mickey squinted at the screen. "Greg Sanders… Right, nice job."

"Look," Danny said. "I found something."

"Local CSI: Hero or Murderer…" Mickey read the headline. "Open it, open it! If he killed someone, that's something we can use!"

"Yeah, well if he killed someone, they already know, don't they?" Danny pointed out. "Not good for blackmail… let me see…" He scanned the article. "Oh… He hit some guy with his car… Got beat up by some mob… There was an inquest…"

"Boring," Mickey said. "What else is there?"

Danny returned to the search results and scrolled down the page. "Uh… This looks interesting."

"Girl's Murder Raises Questions…" Mickey said. "That's like twenty years ago, Danny!"

"Doesn't matter," Danny said. "Dirt is dirt, doesn't matter how old it is. Let's see… 'The murder of six-year-old Lucy Sanders sparks the interest of San Gabriel Police Department when conflicting stories between the witnesses brought into question the role her older brother played in her demise. Young Lucy suffered a bullet to the forehead December 24, 1985 and died instantly…' Some stuff about the case and the family, blah, blah, blah… OK, here. 'Greg Sanders, age 10, originally a witness in his sister's death, became a suspect when police found flaws with his mother's story. The woman, deeply distraught, changed her story three times and appears to be covering for her young son, though authorities are still unsure if he actually committed the crime or not. What still remains to be seen is if the murder was accidental or intentional, and whether or not the Sanders boy had any motive beyond simple sibling rivalry…'"

"This guy really _is_ a killer," Mickey said excitedly.

"No…" Danny said, looking back at the search page. "It says in this later article that he was exonerated…"

"Doesn't matter, does it?" Mickey asked. "He could have still done it. He got off for murder _twice_ by the looks of it, maybe we could learn a few things from him."

"If he really did kill his sister, then why didn't he shoot you when he had the chance?" Danny asked. "You were wide open. I saw him, he had his gun trained on you as you ran the hell out of there. There was a good three seconds where he could have hit you, but he didn't shoot. Why the hesitation?"

"I don't know," Mickey said, frustrated. "Maybe he felt guilty for killing before."

"Or _maybe_ he was _scared_," Danny said. "Scared like I was when you originally asked me to do the shooting. I froze up, I couldn't do it. Remember?"

"Yeah, well you're a pansy," Mickey said. "Not this guy…" He had an air of admiration in his eye and Danny was surprised to find that he was slightly jealous.

"Yeah, well, you're a jerk," he muttered.

Mickey seemed to notice his jealousy. "Aw, Danny…" he said, smiling as he cupped his cheek. "You know I only have eyes for you."

Danny smiled, but was unprepared for Mickey leaning forward and meeting Danny's lips with his own, rendering the young boy speechless. Whatever words Danny had wanted to say, Mickey stole them straight from his mouth.

Danny pushed Mickey away and flushed bright red. "Not here…" he whispered, looking around.

Mickey grinned wickedly. "Come on, Dan, the library is deserted, who's going to know?"

"I don't _do_ that sort of thing in public," Danny said. "You know that."

Mickey rolled his eyes. "Right, OK. So let's get back to our detective mission. Anything new on this hot CSI?"

Danny grumbled and pushed the keyboard over to Mickey. "I don't know, you check," he said. "I'm going to sleep."

"Suit yourself," Mickey said with a shrug. "We'll be leaving here in a second though, don't sleep too long."

Danny ignored him. He was angry with Mickey for doing that, and though he was sure no one had seen them, he felt a deep sense of shame rising in the pit of his stomach. He liked Mickey. A lot. Mickey was the only real friend he'd ever known. And yet, every time they kissed, it felt wrong to him. Nearly everything Mickey did these days felt wrong to Danny.

Including murdering four innocent people.

And it was then that his conscience kicked in again, his own little Jiminy Cricket, telling him that he had made a grave mistake in following Mickey in this adventure. He could go to prison, worse than that, _Mickey_ could go to prison, and then who would he have but his uncle? He had to know what he had gotten himself into. He had to read the fine print on the contract he had signed when he had so cavalierly sold his soul to the devil.

"Mickey?" he said quietly.

"Hm?" Mickey asked, reading something on the computer.

"Why that family?" Danny asked.

"Random choice." Mickey lied as naturally as breathing, and generally it took a long time for Danny to figure his lies out. But he had heard this one so many times he was beginning to doubt it.

"No, that's not it…" Danny said. "I know I wasn't in the house when you went in there, but I was watching to make sure things went smoothly, to be your decoy, your get-away plan if things didn't. I didn't hear what they were saying to you, but I saw the look on that guy's face when you took off your mask. He knew you, Mickey, and he was terrified of you. How did he know you?"

Mickey sighed and turned off the computer. "He probably saw me at the school or something, before I was expelled."

"So he was a teacher of yours?" Danny guessed. "Someone who hurt you? Was he the one that—"

"No," Mickey said, turning to him sharply. He calmed down before he whispered, "No, it wasn't him."

Danny put his hand on Mickey's, who looked up at him. "Mick… I don't like that we killed those people and… And if you just told me why, if you had a good reason for it, maybe I could get rid of this nausea that's turning my stomach around. Maybe I can reason with my unsatisfied conscience. So tell me, Mickey. Was he the guy that molested you?"

Mickey pulled his hand away from Danny and snarled at him like a dog. "I told you, _no_!" Mickey roared furiously. "Now come on, we're done here." Mickey gathered his things and rose to his feet, then shot a stunned Danny a nasty look. "Well, are you coming?"

"Yeah… fine… OK," Danny said. But as he followed Mickey out of the library, he made a note of checking up on the family. If Mickey wouldn't tell him, then he would have to find out for himself.

* * *

Mickey climbed up into the tree house and Danny was about to follow when a light turned on behind him and he turned around to see his uncle's bedroom window light on. 

"Danny!" his uncle yelled out of the window at him.

"Sh!" Danny said, looking around nervously as he approached the window. "What's the matter, Uncle Ian?"

His uncle glared at him. "Some woman called from the Las Vegas Police. They wanna see you. What did you do now, you little punk!"

Danny winced as his uncle's slurred words bled together until he could barely decipher them. "Uncle Ian, calm down, you'll wake the neighborhood—"

"Don't you tell me what to do, you little rat!" his uncle shouted. "Now get your ass inside this house right now! What are you doing in that tree house all the time anyway? Are you a frickin' boyscout now or something? It's like… fifty degrees outside!"

"Alright, alright, I'll come inside!" Danny said. Anything to get his uncle to shut up. He looked up into the tree at Mickey, who was looking down on him hidden in the shadows of the tree house. He looked forlorn and annoyed as he watched Danny walk away. Danny knew he'd get an earful from him later. But now, he had to deal with his uncle.

He closed the front door quietly and was in the middle of locking it when something pushed his head against the door and sent a searing jolt of pain through his skull. His body tensed and his eyes shut tight as he tried to hold back the tears.

"So what did you do this time, you delinquent?" his uncle demanded. "Underage drinking?"

"I don't know!" Danny cried out, covering his ears with his forearms. It was half-true. It couldn't have been about what they'd done. He had barely been in the house at all, just playing watchdog and collecting the spoils after Mickey had done the dirty work. And they had both worn gloves. How could they have possibly found out this fast?

His uncle slapped him hard across the face. "Don't lie to me, boy!"

"I'm not lying!" Danny screamed. "Please, Uncle Ian, it's Christmas Eve, and I'm _tired_!"

"Then you should have been upstairs and asleep _hours_ ago!" his uncle retorted. "Where the hell have you been all night? That lady wanted to know."

"I told you, I was going out with my friend," Danny said, the tears beginning to streak down his cheek. "Before you started drinking. You said it was OK!"

Uncle Ian grabbed him by his collar and sneered in his face. Danny could smell the whiskey radiating from his mouth like cheap cologne. "Do you know _why_ I drink, Danny?" he hissed.

Danny hated this question because every time his uncle asked it, he always followed it up with a terrible beating. "Y-y-yes…" he stuttered.

His uncle slammed him against the door. "Good," he said. "Why?"

"B-b-because of M-M-Mom!" Danny sobbed.

His uncle slowly nodded, tears streaking down his cheeks as well. "That's right. That's right, my baby sister. I took care of her all my life, I always put her first. And how does she repay me? By running off with some convict. And then she pops you out and expects me to look after you? You took the life outta her. You _killed_ her!" He threw Danny to the floor who immediately adopted his typical position, covering his ears with his hands and bending his arms tight against his cheeks. His knees were curled up in his chest as his uncle kicked him "I didn't, I didn't, please Uncle Ian, I didn't kill her!"

These words seemed to have acted as some sort of trigger, and Uncle Ian stopped. Danny opened one eye, terrified as he looked up at his uncle, who was breathing heavily.

"Get up," his uncle spat. "I'm gonna take you to the police station."


	5. Her Name Was Sara

**_Author's Note:_** Yay! Sara! I've written chapter six. Nice Catherine/Nick interactions there. Then in chapter seven or eight we get to the really juicy bits, or so goes my plan. I haven't written that far yet. Night Bleeds is over, so I can focus all my attention on this. Feel special, a "long" chapter today. :o) And to think, I almost left out the mistletoe part.

* * *

Chapter Five: Her Name Was Sara 

Sara frowned at the photographs in front of her before shaking her head. "No…" she said. "No, ours looks like the real deal, I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Catherine said, sounding relieved. "It means you get to deal with the camera-happy press."

"Greg will be disappointed," Sara pointed out, with the hint of a smile.

"He'll live," Catherine replied, not amused. "So I'm not too familiar with this case. Tell me how you're so sure that ours is the copy cat?"

"He stole from your scene, for one," Sara said. "It's not about larceny, it's about control. He lines the family up and always shoots the kids first, so the parents can see."

"Ah…" Catherine said, nodding. "And because of the spatter and positioning of the bodies, it seems the kids died _after_ their parents at my scene."

"Exactly," Sara said. "Luckily, that was one tidbit we kept from the press."

Catherine gathered up her crime scene photos. "Well, good luck with your scene. Do you have any leads?"

"We're going through the motions," Sara said. "Talking to friends and neighbors, trying to figure out the habits and social circles of the victims. Odds are they won't correspond with the other crimes, though. The most we've got in common with the others are coincidental acquaintances, and Brass already cleared them all. Funny story about the son, the sweatshirt he was wearing didn't belong to him."

"How do you figure?" Catherine asked.

"It looked a little tight on him, so I checked to see if it had been put on him after he died. Well, it wasn't, but the initials on the tag in the back read D.M. The family name was Denton, and moreover the boy's name was Kyle. Brass asked around the neighborhood, apparently Kyle was a bully, taking kids' lunch money, that sort of thing. I called up the uncle of his favorite victim. A Daniel McCormick. He wasn't home, but the uncle said he'll send him over."

"The kid wasn't home on Christmas Eve?" Catherine asked, looking surprised.

"I know, it sounded fishy to me too," Sara said with a sigh. "But I doubt he's our man. A sixteen-year-old kid plotting the murders of twenty-four different families and not getting caught?"

"Never underestimate the mind of a psychotic teenager," Catherine pointed out.

"Even so, some of the disorders on this guy's psychological profile can't even be properly diagnosed until the subject is at least eighteen," Sara said. "I don't know, I just feel like we're grasping at straws here."

"Grasping at straws is better than grasping at air," Catherine pointed out.

Sara smiled. "That's true."

Nick popped his head in the room. "Hey Cath, you got a minute?"

Catherine gathered her photos. "No problem, Nick, we're all done here."

Brass showed up behind Nick. "Sara, your, ahem, suspect is here."

Sara cocked an eyebrow and she and Catherine exchanged looks. "Good luck with that," Catherine said.

Catherine and Nick left and Sara followed Brass. "What's with the skepticism?"

"When you see him, you'll know," Brass said.

"Sara!" Greg cried out, jumping out in front of her nearly startling her to death.

"What the _hell_, Greg?!" she breathed.

He laughed at her surprise before shaking a green sprig with white berries above her head. "Care to help me put this up?"

Brass suppressed a snicker and Sara glared at Greg. "No, sorry."

"Come on," Greg pleaded. "In the spirit of the season."

"Grissom doesn't allow mistletoe," Sara said simply. "It's, uh… unprofessional." She glanced at Brass who continued to snicker quietly to himself.

Greg's face fell as he looked at the plant in his hand. "Oh…" he said. He then held it above his own head and grinned again. "Well then how about you give me props for trying?"

Sara had to smile, but she patted him on the shoulder. "Maybe next year, Greggo. I'm on a case?"

"Oh," Greg said, taking the mistletoe down. "Right. Yeah. So am I. I'm gonna go find Catherine. Bye." As he took off, Sara saw the hint of red that was creeping onto his cheeks.

"Why did you do that?" Brass asked, shaking his head in disbelief.

Sara shrugged. "Do what? Don't we have a kid waiting for us?"

"Right," Brass said. "Come on."

He was sitting in a chair in the lobby with his arms folded and his eyes on the floor. He was as pale as glass and looked so small in that chair. He seemed short for his age, just over five feet, and his mop of brown hair was a mess. His arms were bruised and he had a split lip and a bump on his forehead. He looked as though he had just walked out of a vulgar brawl. Upon their entrance, his uncle nudged him and he looked up. His green eyes were piercing and Sara inhaled sharply as their gaze locked.

The uncle rose to his feet, looking a little disheveled himself as he held out a hand to Sara and Brass. "Hi, I'm Ian Baxter, I'm Daniel's guardian, I believe we spoke on the phone?"

Sara tore her eyes away from the boy and nodded at his uncle, taking the proffered hand. "What happened to your nephew? Is he OK?"

"Oh," Ian Baxter laughed. "He just got in a tussle with one of the neighborhood kids. They're always picking on him on account of him being so small. I keep telling him not to slouch. He'll look taller."

Sara knew the lies of men who beat their families as well as she knew her own name. She had even recited a few of them herself to doctors and social workers who had asked her about her mother. But she could lie with the best of them and she forced a smile. "OK, well… We're going to take Daniel into another room now to talk to him about an ongoing investigation."

"Shouldn't I be in there with him?" Ian asked, looking overly concerned. "I mean, for the boy's own good, you know."

"Do you have a law degree?" Sara said, a little too icily.

"No, but I—"

"Don't worry, sir," Brass interrupted, trying to cover Sara's mistake. "He's just a witness, not a suspect yet, he doesn't need legal council or anything like that. He knew the victim, and we just want to know what he can tell us about the family." He looked at Daniel. "Maybe he was the one you got in a fight with earlier today. Kyle Denton?"

Daniel stiffened at the name and Ian took his opening. "Ah, yeah, that's the kid that did it, didn't you say, Danny?"

Daniel looked from his uncle to Brass with wide eyes before he nodded silently.

Sara smiled at him and tried to catch his eye. "Hey," she said, in her most soothing of tones. "My name is Sara. Why don't you step into this room over here with me, hm?" Again he nodded and swallowed. She looked at Brass. "You want to reassure this concerned guardian that we'll take good care of his nephew?"

"Will do," Brass said, taking the hint. As Sara led Daniel into one room, Brass led Ian into another. Sara could already hear the beginning of his questions to the man. "Mr. Baxter, has your nephew ever…"

Sara turned and closed the door before turning back to Daniel and smiling kindly at him. "Have a seat, Daniel."

"Danny," the boy mumbled.

"I'm sorry?" Sara said.

"Everybody calls me Danny," he said, a little louder.

"OK," she said with a nod. "Danny, then."

"So what's this about Kyle getting killed?" Danny asked. "I didn't…"

"Well," Sara said slowly, sitting down opposite Danny at the table. "Earlier tonight, his whole family was murdered by a highly publicized serial killer. I know you don't have anything to offer about that, but maybe you could tell me about the family, like… what kind of enemies Kyle had?"

"Enemies?" Danny said with a laugh. "No, Kyle didn't have enemies. In relation to him, people fell into two categories. They were either his goons, or his victims. He didn't run from anyone, they ran from him."

"You don't run from him, though," Sara said, still using cautious tones. "That's some bump on your forehead, Danny. You wanna tell me about it?"

"What, this?" Danny asked, his fingers flying to his forehead. "Nah, it's nothing…"

"How did that happen?" Sara asked innocently.

"Aw, Kyle slammed my head against a door," Danny said, forcing a laugh. "What a clown, that guy."

"Where were you tonight?" Sara asked. "I know you weren't at home."

And then, Danny grew very quiet as he began to fidget and stare at the floor. "Oh, uh… I went out. With a friend. We had pizza and went bowling."

Sara reached across the table and took Danny's hand. He was so shocked he stopped fidgeting and looked up at her with wide green eyes. Whatever color that was left in his face vanished as she looked at him then, and his fingers tightened around her hand as though holding on for dear life. "Danny, I understand why you wouldn't want to spend Christmas Eve with your uncle. I know what it's like to be scared of a man who's supposed to protect you. Has this happened all your life?"

And then, Danny looked away, his cheeks flushing red. "I'm not six-years-old, you don't have to treat me like I am."

And yet, he didn't let go of her hand. She smiled and put her other hand on top of his, to reassure him that she just wanted to help. "Let me guess," she said. "He gets drunk every night, around the same time. He's OK when he's sober, almost gentle, sometimes he's even nice to you. But when he gets drunk, you get out of the house because you know what he'll do to you if you cross his path. He's had a hard life and he blames it all on you. Am I warm?"

He looked up at her again, startled, but neither confirmed nor denied her theory.

She continued to pursue the truth. "When did your parents die, Danny?"

"My Dad's not dead," Danny said, seeming glad for the change of topic as his grip on Sara's hand slackened. "He's in prison."

"And your mom?" Sara asked.

"She died when I was four," Danny said. "I barely remember her."

"How did she die?" Sara asked.

"Infection," Danny said. "Giving birth to me was a big strain on her. She was hospitalized for weeks afterwards, and she was never really the same. Weak. Frail. But very sweet. I remember that."

"Do you talk to your father?" Sara asked.

"Sometimes, when Ian lets me," Danny replied. "He was on parole when I was ten but he left town and so he was arrested again. The night before he left, he said he'd come back for me and we'd buy a house in Panama. Even though he's in prison, every night I think he's going to come back. Lame, huh?"

Sara smiled at his insecurity. "Not at all," she said, giving his hand an extra squeeze.

He was suddenly wary of her as he pulled his hand away. "Why are you being so nice to me?" he asked suspiciously. "I didn't do anything!"

"I know," Sara said, trying to calm him down. "I know, but I just… If he's hurting you, Danny, I just want to help."

He stopped. "You… you do?"

Sara nodded. "I know what it's like, remember?" she said. "My Dad… he used to beat my Mom. So I know. I know what it's like when you have to lie for someone else. You want to tell me how you _really_ got that bump on your forehead?"

"Your…" He seemed stunned, as if Sara was the first person in the world to ever take an interest in him. Considering his family, that may not have been far from the truth.

Sara nodded. "If you tell me, I can stop it," she said. "We'll call a social-worker, everything—"

"No!" Danny said quickly, jumping to his feet. "You don't understand, I can't leave him, he needs me. If I go somewhere else, he won't have anyone!"

"Your uncle?" Sara said skeptically. "Sweetie…"

Danny seemed to calm down again at the pet name. He frowned at her. "Why do you care so much?"

As this was the second time he doubted her intentions, Sara determined he was in bad need of a friend with no ulterior motives. "Look," she said, tearing a note off of the pad and scribbling something down. "I'm going to give you my number and… if you need anything, anything at all, like you're in a jam and you don't want to go to the police… Just give me a call."

He took the paper cautiously before folding it up and putting it in his pocket. "But… you _are_ the cops. Aren't you?"

She laughed. "I work for the crime lab," she said. "And this will be an off duty thing. Cross my heart."

"Crime lab…" He sampled the phrase and contemplated it a moment before he agreed. "OK. Thanks. Can I go now?"

Sara sighed and leaned back in her chair, all the questions she had wanted to ask him about the Sneaky Santa case circling her brain. It all seemed unimportant now. This kid had nothing to do with that. He was just a scared teen, trying to avoid his abusive uncle. "Sure, honey."

He turned to leave, then paused, looking at his shoes. "About Kyle… What serial killer was it?"

"The media calls him the Sneaky Santa Killer," Sara replied. "We can only hope that, going with the season, tomorrow will be his last hit. Because we have no idea where he'll strike next."

"But… I thought I saw… on the news, it was a family of four," Danny said, his voice trembling. "Kyle… had two sisters… Family of five…"

"Ah, yes, this happened after the first killing," Sara explained. "The first one was a copy cat."

His ears perked up. "Copy… How do you know?"

"The timing is what tipped us off," Sara replied. "The second murder happened minutes after the suspect was seen fleeing the first scene, and there was no way he could have been in two places at once."

"Of course not…" Danny mumbled, sounding almost like he was scolding himself.

"Are you OK, Danny?" Sara asked, standing up.

He turned and smiled at her before nodding, "Yeah," he said. "I'm…" he laughed. "I'm better than I've been all month. Thanks a lot. For… caring." He paused. "The… first scene. The victims. Who were they? I missed their names on the news."

"They didn't say their names on the news," Sara said. "We were alerting their next of kin. Why so curious?"

"Just am," Danny said, a little too quickly. "I mean, I know the Dentons. Kyle beat me up once because I looked at his sister the wrong way. Wow… she's dead too, huh? That's so weird."

Sara nodded. "Hughes," she said. "The family's name was Hughes."

Danny nodded. "Right…" he said. "Thanks."

* * *

By the time he returned home, it was 2:00AM, but as he clambered into the tree house, the flashlight clicked on. 

"Where have you been?" Mickey asked accusingly.

Danny was exhausted as he crawled into his sleeping bag. "The police wanted to talk to me about Kyle Denton's murder."

"Denton is dead?" Mickey said, sounding surprised.

"Didn't I just say that?" Danny snapped.

"Calm down, there's no need to get defensive," Mickey said.

"If there's no need to get defensive, why are you always on the attack?" Danny retorted, annoyed. "Why do you always think I'm going to do something to sell you out? You're my _best friend_, Mickey. You have to trust me."

Mickey folded his arms and pouted. "I guess you're right."

"So you wanna tell me about that family, then?" Danny asked.

"The less you know, the better," Mickey said. "If the cops want to talk to you again, you can just honestly say you don't know anything."

Danny decided to give up as he turned around in his sleeping bag to face the wall. "I met a girl," he said.

He heard Mickey's disinterest in his yawn. "That's nice."

"It was, actually," Danny said. "She talked like… she knew me."

"Don't be stupid, Danny, how could she know you?" Mickey said and Danny did have to laugh at how ridiculous he was being. But he couldn't help it. She was the first person other than Mickey to treat him like a human being instead of a punching bag. She was interested in him. And she was beautiful. And something about her made Danny feel dizzy. He smiled, giddily.

"Yeah," he said. "You know, she was a CSI."

Mickey laughed. "Great," he said. "Maybe we can pull something up on her, too. What was her name?"

He remembered her soft brown eyes and his insides melted in a pool of warmth. "Sara," he said. "Her name was Sara." 


	6. Tension

**_Review Replies:_** Because I'm too lazy to reply to you all individually: cause.A.scene-- they say the best way to witness a car crash is from every angle. ;o) Black Tulip-- thanks, I loathe Mary Sues although when I was younger, I have been guilty of a few myself, I'm afraid. Still, I love developing my "villains" and I am really liking Danny in this. He's my favorite OC so far, rivaling my second favorite Mindy from Queen of Spades. The funnest villain to write of course is the total psychopath, who's just all around evil (Sasha Volkov, "Collateral Damage" or, on the show, Nigel Crane or the Blue Paint Killers) But the most interesting villain to craft (and, in my opinion, to read/watch on TV) is the conflicted villain, the one that is villainous only because he knows no better, or because he was forced into it (Hassan Ibrahim, "Salam") Danny, of course, is the latter. (I recognize I've referenced my own stories in giving examples, but I couldn't think of anything else.)

_**Author's note: **_Anyways, I spent most of my weekend working on my video contest entry for "Project: CSI" video contest this August, so not as much writing as I would have liked. Still, I managed to get this out, and it was a lot of fun to write, I have to say, and aptly titled if I do say so myself. My favorite chapter so far. I hope no one is thrown off by the ship that develops in this chapter... Well, enjoy. :o)

* * *

  


Chapter Six: Tension

Catherine waited for Nick to say something, but he just kept walking down the hall, and so, without an explanation, she followed. "Nicky? What's up?"

He veered left into one of the layout rooms and waited for Catherine to follow before he closed the door. He turned to the blonde. "Listen, is there something you want to tell me about?"

"No…" Catherine said. "I think you're a little confused here, see, _you_ wanted to talk to _me_."

"Greg told me you lied to Grissom," Nick said suddenly, apparently deciding he didn't want to beat around the bush.

"I'll kill him," Catherine murmured.

"I figured you wouldn't forget to mention something important," Nick said. "But then as I was working on this Sneaky Santa thing it occurred to me that maybe there was something more to it."

"You were right the first time, I would never leave out anything pertinent to a case—"

"Not the case, _you_," Nick said. "I reckoned that no matter how personal it got, if you thought it could help the case you would tell Grissom in a heartbeat. So that just led me to the conclusion that it was completely personal, and also completely useless to catch the guy. Please tell me I'm right, Cath."

Catherine sighed before she shook her head. "That's not… entirely true."

Nick's interest was piqued. "What?"

Catherine sighed and fell into a nearby chair. "I mean, it's not like it'll help us _catch _him, or anything, but it will help to make a profile…"

"What did he say to you, Catherine?" Nick asked.

"He's gay," she said flatly.

"He told you that?" Nick said, suppressing a chuckle. "Not even an introduction, just, 'Hi, I'm gay, how are you?' Wow, when you come out, you really come _out_."

"He didn't say it like _that_!" Catherine snapped. "He was kinda in the middle of threatening me."

"Why mention that he was gay?" Nick asked, confused.

"Because he was _messing_ with me," Catherine replied. "And what's worse, I fell for it."

Nick pulled out a chair and sat in it backwards, his legs on either side of the back of it as he looked at Catherine curiously. "I… don't understand."

"Yeah, me neither," Catherine sighed. She was really beating herself up about this. The brief minutes repeated themselves over in her mind and reminded her of… him…

"Talk me through it," Nick said encouragingly. "We can work it out together."

"It's nothing, really," Catherine said, although her faraway gaze betrayed her words. "He just reminded me of someone, that's all. Someone I'd rather forget. And it's stupid because… Oh never mind."

Nick smiled reassuringly at her and put his hand on hers. "If it unnerved you like I think it did, then it's not stupid." He rose to his feet. "Look, if you don't want to talk about it, I won't force you. If you say it won't help with the case, and it won't interfere with you working it, then I'll trust your judgment. You've never steered me wrong before. But I'm here, if you ever change your mind. OK?"

Catherine smiled gratefully at him. "I appreciate that," she said. He headed for the door. And then, Catherine remembered something Nick had told her in confidence years ago and stopped him.

"Nicky?"

He paused, then turned to look at her questioningly. "You ready for talkin' yet?"

She opened her mouth then hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "You… told me about something that happened to you. A long time ago, when you… when you were nine?"

Nick's brow furrowed in thought a moment, but it slowly faded away as he recalled the conversation. He nodded. He became excessively withdrawn and didn't speak for a long time. Finally, his mouth formed a tiny circle and he emitted a small "Oh."

Catherine bit her lip and looked down, then up at him again. He walked over to her and took his chair out, his eyes inscrutable. But he took her hand again. "Catherine, was it… something that happened when you were a kid?"

But she shook her head, her eyes on the floor as she studied his shoes. He had good taste in footwear, she noted. "No… Yes… I mean, well… Not really… Not as young as you were. Not like you at all, actually, I just… I just want you to understand why I'm so… reluctant to discuss it." She looked up at him. "You know?"

He nodded. "I do, believe me," he said, his voice just barely above a whisper. "Catherine, if someone did something to you, that's all I need to know, you don't have to—"

"I was fifteen…" Catherine said, her eyes on a point on the wall behind Nick. This was it. She had told him this much, she might as well tell him the rest. "And he was dating my mother."

"Does your mother know?" Nick asked.

Catherine shook her head. "No, I never told anyone." She looked at Nick and smiled ironically. "I figured if anyone would understand that, you would. I, uh… said I lost my virginity on a pool table in Nate Perkins' basement after the homecoming game sophomore year. It was a… much better story, you see, and Nate gladly corroborated I mean, lets face it, I was hot, and he was a teenage boy."

Nick looked down, then up again at Catherine. "I'm sorry I pried. I told Greg that we shouldn't—"

"No," Catherine said loudly, coming out of her reverie. "No, I'm glad you did. Because the things that guy at the scene said to me were humiliating and now at least someone can understand why."

"What did he say?" Nick asked.

Catherine shook her head as she remembered it.

_"Don't move or I'll kill you and your little friend over there." _

_"Yeah, like that's going to stop me you prick," Catherine snarled. _

_He laughed in her hair, his breath moist on her ear. "Feisty. I like them feisty. Keep it up, babe, you're turning me on." _

_Catherine stopped struggling. "I don't…" _

_"New deal. You keep on struggling and you become my new playmate and that guy can watch us, how about that?" _

_She didn't speak for a long time. She didn't know what to do. Her mind was flooded with memories from when she was fifteen and her mother's boyfriend had crept into her room late at night… _

_Then, the crook laughed. "Nah," he said. "Just kidding. I'm gay, actually, you don't do nothing for me." _

_And fury bubbled inside of her and she started struggling worse than ever. And then, she felt the knife against her throat. _

_"I was serious about killing you, though." _

_Greg's scream ripped through the air, distracting him long enough for Catherine to escape. "For the love of _God_, somebody help!"_

"When I was fifteen," Catherine explained. "He crawled into my bed. I told him to leave, but he put his arms around me from behind and hissed in my ear. 'Fiery little thing. So sweet and innocent. I just gotta have a taste. Let's have a play date, little girl…'"

Nick nodded and smiled broadly at Catherine, squeezing her hand tightly in his. "It'll be OK, Cath," he said. "That was a long time ago. You're a completely different person now, that guy could have never—"

"He was never even going to _try_," Catherine said, annoyed with herself. "He was _gay_, didn't you hear? And yet, because it was so similar, because the way he was holding me, the words he was speaking, they were parallel, I thought…"

"You're being too hard on yourself," Nick said. "Really."

She smiled and laughed it off. "Since that night, I swore it would never happen again. I learned to use my sexuality to get what I want, and not turn me into a victim. I grew tough. I grew bold. But when he had his hands on me tonight, it was like I was fifteen-years-old again and all of that melted away. I was scared, Nick. And that pisses me off."

Nick laughed as he got to his feet. "Well, come on then, beautiful," he said. "Let's get back on the case and help catch this guy."

Catherine couldn't help but grin. She knew she could always count on Nick to say the right thing. She caught him by the shoulder as he opened the door. He turned around and looked at her expectantly, his wide brown eyes so strangely sincere.

"Nick, I…" But while Nick always knew exactly what to say, she was constantly at a loss for words. Nonetheless, he just waited there patiently for her to figure it out, his eyebrows raised in encouraging curiosity. "Oh, screw it," she said, and threw her arms around his neck before she kissed him so fiercely he stumbled backwards into the wall, his palms flat against it. He was surprised at first, she could tell by his lack of response, but after a few seconds, when he had recovered, his hands left the wall and slid around her waist while his tongue reciprocated the kiss.

And then the door opened and slammed just as quickly and they broke apart, their eyes staring at the slammed door and their hearts beating like twin hummingbirds. They looked at each other, neither one quite sure exactly what had happened. And then, without another word, Nick was out the door and running down the hall, leaving Catherine alone in the layout room.

* * *

Nick looked left, then right, but couldn't determine who had been the one that had interrupted them. And then, he saw Greg walking at a brisk pace down the hall to his right so he took off after him at a slow jog. His suspicions were confirmed when Greg picked up speed upon hearing his footsteps.

He put on a huge grin and jumped behind Greg, seizing his friend tightly by the shoulders. "Hey there, Greggo," Nick said cheerily, steering him into a nearby vacant office. "Can I talk to you for a sec?"

"Do I have a choice?" Greg muttered as he was shoved into the office and Nick closed the door.

Nick turned to Greg, dead serious. "OK, um… Look, it's not what you think."

"So I _didn't _just see you and Catherine getting down in the layout room?" Greg said.

Nick opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again upon second thought. He shook his head to clear it. "No, that's not—"

"So you _weren't_ kissing her?" Greg pressed.

Nick sighed. "Yes, I mean, we were but—"

"So… What did you think I saw Nick, a tap dancing penguin?"

Nick raked his hands through his hair, but noticed Greg was smiling. He sighed. "Look, it was… I actually don't really know what it was, we didn't exactly have time to discuss it thanks to you."

"What's there to discuss?" Greg asked. "Your tongues were preoccupied. No words involved"

"I don't know what she was thinking…" Nick said, trying to figure it out.

"'I think I'll stop off at the grocery store on my way home. We're out of eggs,'" Greg said, looking at the ceiling.

"What?" Nick said, incredulously.

"She was probably thinking that," Greg explained.

Nick folded his arms in irritation. "No. We were talking, and then the next thing I know… God, I… I have no idea what was going through her mind."

"But obviously you followed the same train of thought," Greg pointed out. "Otherwise you wouldn't have enjoyed it as much as you looked like you did."

"Shut up," Nick said. "Stop acting like this is high school."

"I'm not the one turning red right now," Greg replied, and Nick narrowed his eyes. Greg rolled his own eyes in reply. "Look, Nick, frankly I can't blame you. I mean, Catherine's pretty hot, right? But it's reasons like this that Grissom doesn't allow mistletoe in the workplace. It's unprofessional."

Nick's brow furrowed in confusion. "Greg, Grissom doesn't have a policy on mistletoe."

Greg looked horrified, as if he had suffered some sort of personal injury. Then he got a far away look in his eye and cursed under his breath. He shook it off. "OK, whatever, that's not the point here."

"You're right," Nick said. "The point is that it's my business and you need to stay out of it. Something that you're not altogether very good at, are you?"

"Hey," Greg said pointedly. "That's not fair."

"It's _completely_ fair," Nick said, suddenly on the offensive. "You're the one who wanted me to probe Catherine like a science experiment to find out what she was hiding from you!"

"Hey, I did that out of concern for—"

"Don't tell me you're not _dying_ to know why she lied to you and Grissom." Nick interjected.

Greg looked like he was becoming angry too. "Look. I was worried about Catherine, I have never seen her so shook up before, alright? And I didn't send you as a _spy_ for me so you could tell me her deep dark secret, I just sent you because I know she _trusts_ you, more than she trusts me, and it wasn't my place to step in and be her shoulder to cry on. I just wanted you to _talk_ to her, Nick, no ulterior motives. But apparently, your lips were a little too busy to get any talking done."

"Stop… _talking_ about things you know nothing about, Greg!" Nick said, losing his patience. "For your information, we _did_ talk, we got a lot of talking done, and what you saw was…" He trailed off and then was shouting. "Why am I still here? I don't have to explain _anything_ to you!"

And with that, he turned around and marched right out the door. But Greg wasn't finished. He leaned out the door and screamed at Nick as he walked down the hall.

"This is a _bad idea_, Nick!" he called. "Come back! I'm not done yelling at you yet!"

But Nick just kept walking and made a very rude gesture at Greg with his hand before he rounded a corner. Everyone in the hall had stopped what they were doing, and when Nick walked out of sight, they all turned to look at Greg. Too annoyed to notice, Greg simply let out a frustrated growl and slammed the door to the office they were in. He leaned against it, taking deep breaths as he tried to compose his thoughts. He slowly slid down the door until he was sitting on the floor, his head leaning back so he could stare at the ceiling.

He stayed there for a long time.


	7. Lost and Found

_**Author's Note:**_ So this was mostly a filler chapter, so to make it interesting I added a nifty little cliff hanger there at the end. I hope you can follow all the different plots going on. I know it's a lot to handle. I'll sum up what's going on with everyone next chapter for you guys.

* * *

Chapter Seven: Lost and Found

Rather than stand there in the layout room like an idiot, Catherine decided it was best if she slipped out surreptitiously after Nick had abandoned her. Regret began to well up inside of her and she scolded herself for being so impulsive. She shouldn't have been doing that. And now, someone had seen them, and probably got the wrong impression… As she tried to keep her cheeks from flushing, she pushed all thoughts of the strange, spontaneous event and decided instead to focus on her job, which, she reminded herself, was what she and Nick were both there for in the first place. She walked down the hall towards DNA in order to ask Wendy what she had gotten off the fingernail scrapings Greg sent in.

"Skin cells," Wendy chirped cheerily as she handed the paper to Catherine. "Under the son's fingernails."

"And you got a match?" Catherine asked with a raise of her eyebrows.

"Yes and no," Wendy said. "He's not in any of our systems, but he _does_ have several alleles in common with the boy. And the little girl, for that matter."

Catherine looked floored. "A _sibling_?" she exclaimed.

"Looks like," Wendy replied.

"But… that's impossible!" Catherine said, staring at the papers. "I looked at the photos on that mantelpiece… It was the mom, the dad and the two kids, there wasn't another son!"

"What did you find when you notified the next of kin?" Wendy asked.

"A cousin of the father in Aberdeen, Washington," Catherine said, shaking her head slowly. "That was the best we got. And he didn't mention anything about another son, he only knew of the two kids… There's a sister of the mother's, but we haven't been able to reach her."

"Well," Wendy continued. "I thought you'd find it fishy, so I ran the evidence against the parents as well. He shares half his mother's genes, but Daddy isn't really his daddy."

Catherine frowned. "Mom had another child? Maybe she never told her husband about it?"

"That's what it looks like," Wendy said. "If you say no one who knew the family knew of another son, then that would be my best guess."

Sara entered behind Catherine. "Hey," she said to Wendy, sounding winded.

Catherine turned and frowned at her pale face. "What happened to you?"

"Aw," Sara said, dismissively. "One of my witnesses is having trouble at home. Listen, I think I took some of your crime scene photos by mistake." She began shuffling through the photos in her hands. "Saw this bloody footprint Greg photographed, and I knew by the wrinkled dollar bill he used that he'd forgotten his measurements again." She smiled. "He does that a lot."

Catherine took the photo and frowned at it. "Thanks, Sara. Hopefully Greg ran this through the SoleMate database already…" And then something occurred to her. "Hey, Sara, you haven't… seen anything strange around here lately, have you?"

Sara thought for a moment. "Define strange."

But her lack of understanding was enough to reassure Catherine. She wasn't the one. "Never mind. How's your case coming?"

"I was about to ask Wendy that same question, actually," Sara said, looking at the lab tech.

But Wendy shook her head. "Sorry. I'm backed up here. Catherine's lucky I just got the results for her. I'm still working cases from last month."

"Catherine's case got priority over mine?" Sara asked, looking at Catherine.

"Well, at the time, Ecklie pushed it to the top," Wendy explained quickly. "We thought it was Sneaky Santa. And then yours came in… You're next on my list, I promise."

Sara nodded. "Well, I'm off to go find Warrick and Nick then, they should have some info for me."

Catherine sighed. "Poor Warrick. He was supposed to have the night off."

"Hey, we all were," Sara replied. "But we've all been working over time this month to catch this guy. From what I hear, Grissom actually called Warrick in the middle of his Christmas dinner with his wife's family."

Catherine cringed. "Ooh, I bet Tina didn't like that."

Sara chuckled. "I bet not. Hey, have you seen Nick? I haven't seen him since he asked to talk to you."

"Uh, yeah, me neither," Catherine said honestly, but still a little nervous. "He's probably with Warrick. Seen Greg around?"

Sara rolled her eyes. "He tried to get me to put up mistletoe."

"That's festive," Catherine said.

"It's unprofessional," Sara corrected.

"Aw, you're no fun," said Catherine playfully.

Sara looked pensive. "You know, I never understood mistletoe. It's just an excuse for desperate guys to get kisses from girls."

"Or vice versa," Catherine pointed out.

Sara laughed. "Right, I can see you totally jumping… I don't know, Nick or someone if he pinned up mistletoe… Catherine, are you blushing?"

"No," Catherine said quickly. "I need to find Greg. Bye."

Sara was confused for only an instant until she embarked on her own search for Nick and Warrick.

* * *

"Hey, Nick, what's up?" Warrick asked as he bumped into him in the hall.

"Nothing!" he snapped, a little too hastily.

Warrick was taken aback. "Calm down, man, I was just saying hello."

Nick sighed and relaxed. "I know, Warrick, I'm sorry… Did you get anything out of trace?"

"Hodges claims he's backlogged," Warrick replied. "But that our case is top priority."

"I thought Greg said he got something back from Hodges earlier," Nick growled, sounding irritated as he spoke Greg's name.

"Uh… At the time, _Greg's_ case was top priority," Warrick replied. "It was called in first with Sneaky Santa written all over it. Remember?"

"Whatever…" Nick muttered.

Warrick frowned as he tried to catch his friend's eye. "Are you and Greg OK, man?"

"We're fine," Nick replied hastily.

"Really?" Warrick asked, a smile creeping on his face. "Because I could have sworn I heard him say he wasn't done yelling at you from way back down that way." He gestured down the hall, from the way he'd come.

Nick sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Yeah, um, OK, we had a little spat…"

"Want to talk about—"

"No," Nick said firmly, cutting him off.

Warrick nodded. "OK," he said simply.

Their phones went off simultaneously and they both looked down, taking them out to see that they had each received identical messages from Sara.

_Where the hell r u guys?_

Warrick chuckled. "I can't believe she used that slang."

"Keeps things quick," Nick replied. "Come on, let's go find her."

"Excuse me," a teenage boy in a UPS cap said, walking up to Nick and Warrick. The two CSIs turned and frowned at the boy curiously.

"Can I help you, kid?" Nick asked, eying the envelope the boy was carrying skeptically.

"Yeah, I'm looking for a…" He looked at the name on the envelope. "Greg Sanders?"

"You can just drop that off at the front desk, he'll pick it up there," Warrick said as he saw Nick tense up.

"I would," said the delivery boy, "but I have orders to deliver this directly to him. I've been looking for him everywhere. Could you just help me out?"

"He was in Gil Grissom's office last I saw him," Nick said slowly. "Try there."

"Thank you," said the delivery boy and he headed off in that direction.

* * *

There was a knock on the door he was leaning on.

"Ocupado," Greg called to his faceless visitor.

"Get out of my office, Greg."

He froze momentarily before looking around the room he was in for the first time since Nick had first pushed him in there. Bugs… _everywhere_.

"Dammit, Grissom," Greg said as he clambered to his feet. "Out of all the offices I could have walked into…"

He opened the door to an inscrutable Grissom, who finished his sentence. "You had to walk into mine."

"Actually, to be more accurate, I was shoved in here," Greg said. "Against my will."

"Apparently, nothing stopped you from leaving, though," Grissom replied, making his way past Greg to his desk where he set down some evidence before sitting down in his chair. Greg stared at him as he started to work. Grissom seemed to realize he was still there and looked up at him.

"I could have sworn I assigned you to a case earlier…"

"Sarcasm doesn't become you," Greg muttered.

Grissom frowned. "Is something the matter, Greg?"

Greg opened his mouth to reply but bit his tongue. It wasn't his secret to tell. "I got in a fight with Nick."

"You look like you came out of it relatively unscathed," Grissom noted.

"Yeah, well…" Greg sighed as he fell into the chair in front of Grissom's desk. "Not all the scars are visible."

Grissom nodded in understanding. "That bad?"

"No," Greg said. "I mean, not really. It could have been a lot worse. It was just weird. One minute we're just talking, and the next… boom!"

"Boom…" Grissom repeated. "Well, you're not working with Nick. So maybe helping Catherine out with your case will help to distract you."

"Grissom, I need a distraction to distract me from my distractions," Greg said. "My mind is all over the place tonight."

"Yeah, so's mine," Grissom said. "The whole lab is working overtime, Brass tells me Sara's seconds away from calling social services on a witness's father, I have to bake Warrick a pie, and this Sneaky Santa thing is really beginning to give me a headache."

"You need to bake Warrick a…"

"Don't ask," Grissom interrupted. "Go work."

"Sure thing, Boss," Greg said, jumping to his feet. He left quickly and was walking down the hallway when he ran into Catherine and tried not to show his unease.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey," he replied, trying to act natural.

She showed him one of the crime scene photos. "So I'm guessing you already ran the tread through the SoleMate database?"

Greg looked at the photo. "What? Oh, yeah… Yeah, um… Skechers, boy's junior-size seven… This guy has small feet."

"Either that or we're dealing with a kid, which I doubt," Catherine said. "Did the guy who jumped us look small enough to wear that kind of shoe to you?"

"He was out of the junior sizes by far," Greg said.

"Hey," Sara called as she past the two of them.

"What are you, following me, Sidle?" Catherine said with a smirk.

Sara smirked back, then turned to Greg. "Have you seen Nick and Warrick? I swear, you'd think this place was a maze with how easily people get lost in here."

Greg looked away at the mention of Nick. "No, I haven't seen him," he said.

Sara looked at Catherine. "Did you get a shoe to match the tread?"

"Skechers, boys junior-size seven," Catherine replied.

"Your guy is _young_…" Sara said, looking surprised. And then, her brow furrowed and she looked away. "Bloody footprint. Right?"

Catherine and Greg nodded. Sara looked confused and she began to walk away. "Uh… good luck with… finding him…" She said distractedly and made her way down the hall.

"What's up with her?" Greg asked, but Catherine simply shrugged.

* * *

There was a knock on his door and Grissom looked up at the delivery boy.

"Yes?" he said in greeting.

"I'm looking for Greg Sanders, I was told he was in here?" the boy replied.

Grissom shook his head. "He was, but you just missed him."

"Dammit…" the boy cursed under his breath. "Look, sir, I've been looking for this guy all night, and, well… I'm supposed to give it to him directly, make sure he gets it, but you look like a pretty reliable guy—"

"I'll be sure he gets it," Grissom said and the delivery boy smiled appreciatively.

"Thanks, sir," he said. He left the envelope on Grissom's desk and he left.

Grissom took the envelope and slid it across his desk out of innocent curiosity. But curiosity quickly elevated to concern at the drawing on the back of the envelope.

It was a caricature of a sinisterly winking Santa Claus dressed in black. He was carrying his sack over his shoulder, only instead of toys poking out of the opening, there were knives and guns and lumps of coal. He spun the envelope back around to look for a return address. There was none. Typical.

Grissom knew it was a crime to open another person's mail without their consent, not to mention a nosey invasion of their privacy. So, still staring at the envelope, he reached for his phone.

"Sanders," came the reply on the other end.

"Greg…" Grissom began slowly. "I have something for you in my office. It looks to be a card or a letter of some sort. Come here and pick it up."

"Can it wait, Grissom? Catherine and I are—"

"No, it can't wait," Grissom said sharply. "May I open it?"

"Who's it from?" Greg asked, sounding curious now.

"No return address," Grissom said.

"That's unusual," Greg replied. "Sure, go ahead and open it, I don't care."

"See you soon…" Grissom said and hung up.

He looked at the envelope again before breaking the seal and opening it. He pulled out a common red and green Christmas card that looked to be years old by the faded ink and the worn crease. The front of it read, _Happy Holidays from the Sanders Family_ in embossed gold. When he opened it up, a photograph tumbled out and Grissom found himself looking at a family in a photo that appeared to be from the 1980s. There was a lovely mother, with curly dark blonde hair hanging on the arm of a proud looking father with graying black hair. His hand was on the shoulder of a son, who stood in front of him, making a goofy face at the camera and beside him, standing in front of her mother, was a curly-haired daughter, who was laughing at her brother's funny face. The family was wearing their Sunday best as they stood in front of a fireplace with stockings hanging on it next to a Christmas tree. Grissom turned the photograph around and was surprised at what he saw.

It was an elaborate sketch of a decapitated angel with curly hair. Her body lay on a cloud while the blood rained down from her neck onto the earthly wasteland below where her head had fallen. The head stared up at the viewer with cold, glassy eyes, its mouth partially open.

Beneath the strangely haunting sketch was a date. _Christmas, 1985. With love, from Olivia, Mark, Greg and Lucy._

Grissom put the photo down and opened up the card. Inside was another caricature of the Santa Claus on the envelope, as well as a note, five simple words penned in blood red ink.

_It's all for you, Greg._


	8. A Cry For Help

_**Plot Summary:**_ Catherine's Story: Catherine was startled at the crime scene by Mickey, who reminded her of a man who raped her when she was fifteen. She confides in Nick, and subsequently kisses him, causing drama between Nick and Greg.  
Greg's Story: Greg was perturbed by the little girl who was slaughtered at his crime scene. She reminded him of someone called Lucy and it's been bothering him enough to try anything he can to distract himself from it, which is generally landing him into trouble. He got in a fight with Nick, who accused him of trying to wheedle information out of him and Catherine, and the two are still on rocky waters. Grissom received an unusual card addressed to Greg, with a photograph of Greg's family when he was younger, and a note that said "It's all for you, Greg."  
Sara's Story: Sara meets a witness for her crime scene and due to her own troubled past immediately sympathizes with him and his abusive uncle. Last chapter, she discovered he may be more than just a witness and in this chapter... well, you'll see.

_**Author's Note:**_ I think I covered all my bases. You should be fairly caught up. I know with all the interwoven story lines, you may lose track of what's going on in a few of them. Refer back to this if you ever get confused. I'll do another summation later on in the story, if you guys think you need it. You guys are probably going to be mad at me as I left you with a cliffhanger last chapter that's not resolved in this chapter (yeah, just telling you now so you don't get disappointed). But I give you my solemn vow that the explanation for it has already been planned, written and edited and will be posted tomorrow. For now, though, here's a little of the Sara/Danny storyline. On an unrelated note, Rent! fans, I'm making a La Vie Boheme video for CSI. It's going to rock out loud.

* * *

Chapter Eight: A Cry For Help 

Sara stared at the phone, reluctant to dial the only number she had, and yet she knew it had to be done. She knew it would be a while before Catherine and Greg linked the shoe to a suspect, and she couldn't be sure if those were Skechers he had been wearing or simply black tennis shoes. She wasn't as much of a shoe connoisseur as she should be. But she had noticed they were small for his height, and he had walked a little uncomfortably. The shoes had been too small for his feet. They had been tattered, too, and Sara wondered when the last time he bought new shoes was.

She knew if he was a suspect, she would have to tell Greg and Catherine, but she had to be sure first. He could have just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. She needed to test his shoes for blood.

With this in mind, she dialed the number. It rang a couple of times before a groggy Ian Baxter answered. "Who in Sam Hill calls a house at this hour?"

"Mr. Baxter, I'm sorry to bother you, but I'll need to speak to your nephew," Sara said.

"Well, he's not here," the uncle said. "He's in that tree house of his, sleeping outside. Why? Did he get into trouble again?"

"No, sir, still just a witness. Could you get him for me?"

"Yeah, sure," Ian muttered reluctantly, and she heard him set down the phone. She heard the muffled sounds of yelling. "Danny! You get your ass in here now, boy! The police want another word with you."

Sara heard some muffled sounds she couldn't place.

Ian was yelling again. "Danny? Danny! What are you doing in there, boy, is there somebody up there with you? Aw, that's it!"

Sara heard the sound of the phone being picked up. "Ms, uh…"

"Sidle."

"Ms. Sidle, we're going to have to call you back," Ian said before hastily hanging up. Sara stared at the phone for a long time, not knowing what she had done, or what she should do next.

Just then, Warrick and Nick walked in and said hello, making her jump.

"Jesus Christ," she said to them, catching her breath.

"Well it is his birthday," Warrick replied. "You got anything new for us?"

"You got nothing from trace?" Sara asked, looking incredulous.

"Hodges is backlogged," Warrick explained.

"So is Wendy," Sara said. "Great. What other evidence are we waiting on?"

"I got the lowdown from Doc Robbins," Nick said. "The COD is obvious, a bullet to the brain in each instance. The father had some bruises on him, he probably had a scuffle with the perp because he was shot in the arm too, which happened before he was killed."

"Well let's hope Dad got a sample of his killer," Sara said. "And that Wendy finds something on that. Where the hell have you two been, I've been looking for you guys for the longest time."

"I shouldn't even be here at all," Warrick complained. "I helped you guys process the scene, I told Tina I'd be back before midnight which is…" He looked at his watch. "Four hours ago."

"You could have just said no when Grissom asked," Sara pointed out.

"He offered to bake me a pie for Christmas dinner tomorrow," Warrick said. "As an apology to Tina and her family."

"Ooh, what kind of pie?" Nick asked.

"The kind you don't get any of," Warrick snapped.

Nick pouted. Sara rolled her eyes. "Warrick, I think you can go home. Nick and I can handle this. Talk to Grissom."

Warrick nodded and was about to leave when Sara's phone went off. She answered it reflexively.

"Sidle," she said, and then her face drained of color, inciting curiosity to rise in both Nick and Warrick. "Oh my God… Danny, is that you?... OK, I'll be right over." She looked up at Warrick.

"I'm afraid you'll have to stay. I'm so sorry, this is an emergency, but I have got to help this kid out."

Warrick grumbled. "Fine. Where are you going?"

"No time," Sara said, and darted past both him and Nick and within seconds, she was down the hall and out of sight.

* * *

"_Move!_" Danny ordered to Mickey, who was gathering up his things. "_Now_!" 

"I'm going as fast as I can here, Danny!" Mickey replied. "How do I find you again?"

"I'll meet you at the library in an hour, two tops," Danny assured. "Now get _out_ of here!"

Mickey made for the door to the tree house when Danny stopped him. "_No_!" he said. "Ian's coming up that way, go out the window!"

"Out the…?" Mickey looked shocked.

"Come on, Mickey, if you can kill people, you can climb a stupid tree," Danny said, exasperated.

They heard movement at the base of the tree. Mickey and Danny exchanged looks, then Danny pushed him to the window and forced him outside. Mickey balanced himself on a branch then turned to Danny and grabbed his hand, looking into his green eyes. "I'll find you," Mickey promised before quickly kissing Danny.

"_What the hell are you doing, boy!_"

Danny had never heard Ian's voice so cold. Mickey freaked and stumbled, falling out of the tree. Danny spun around, his hands clutching at the windowsill as he stared at Ian with horrorstruck eyes.

Ian raised his hand and slapped Danny across the face. "So you're a little faggot now?"

"Uncle Ian, no, it's not what you—"

_Wham!_ The punch was a cataclysm of pain and fireworks exploded behind his closed eyelids as he tasted that familiar metallic tang in his mouth. He hid his face in his hands, his whole body tensed as he tried to bite back the throbbing pain that was encompassing his skull. He slid to the floor.

"Ian, please," he sobbed, feeling the tears running down his cheeks. "Please, stop it."

Ian started kicking him again. "I'm not having a little gay boy in my house—"

"_I'm not gay!_" Danny screamed, his voice desperate as it shook with his sobs. "I'm not, _please_, Ian!"

"If you're not gay then what the hell were you doing kissing that guy?"

"I didn't!" Danny screamed. "He kissed _me_! He's my friend, and he… I'm not gay, please Uncle Ian, _please_!"

Ian stopped and stepped back from the boy, who peeked up at his uncle from a space between his fingers, breathing heavily. "I'm not gay, Uncle Ian. I'm scared."

His uncle stared at him, taking deep long breaths. "Did that guy make you do anything you didn't wanna do, Danny? We can take him to court. We can get money—"

"_No_!" Danny said adamantly. "No, he's my friend, he'll die without me, he's got nobody else, nowhere else to go, his folks kicked him out of his house and I'm all he has left. And I'm not about to sell him out to _you_ because you want to exploit me to make some quick cash."

"I don't want to exploit you, Danny," Ian said, sounding uncharacteristically understanding. "You're my sister's son."

"And you hate me for that." Danny spat out some blood onto the floor before wiping his mouth on his sleeve, the tears still streaming from his eyes. "You hate me because you think I'm the reason she's dead. You think she loved me more than she loved you."

"I'd be careful what you say, now, boy, you know I have a short temper," Ian said warningly.

"Oh, so you're warning me now, that must mean you're sobering up!"

"Not on Christmas, Danny," Ian said, shaking his head in an extremely rare sign of remorse. "Christmas is about family."

"And Mickey is the only family I've _got_!" Danny hissed. "So I don't care if he's weird, or he's impulsive, or if he's not too bright. I don't care if he's gay, or if he rarely thinks things through. I don't care about the things he's _done_ because… because…" He got really quiet. "Because he's all I've got too."

Ian was quiet for a long time. "The police want to talk to you again," he said monotonously.

"I'm not gay," Danny said again, knowing by the look on his uncle's stern face that Ian highly doubted this assertion. "I just… I don't know what to do."

"The police _want_ you Danny, don't you _understand_?!" Ian said, ignoring the gay issue altogether. "You're a _suspect_ now!"

"And you're just gonna sell me out, aren't you? The perfect way to get rid of your sister's biggest mistake!" Danny snapped.

Ian reached out to him. "Danny, I—"

"No, I'm leaving. Good _bye_!" And with that, he pushed past Ian and left the tree house, climbing down the ladder.

"Don't you walk out on me, boy!" Ian called after him. "I'll call the cops on you!"

"Yeah, I bet you would!" Danny shouted up the tree daringly, but his whole body was trembling in a mixture of fear and pain. He was too bruised. Too broken. He headed down the street until he found a pay phone and dug in his pocket for a quarter and pulled one out, along with her phone number.

He dialed, and spoke with a shaking voice into the phone as thankfully, someone picked up.

"Sidle."

"S-Sara?"

"Oh my God… Danny, is that you?"

He sniffed and wiped the tears and blood away, trying to keep his voice steady. "I'm in big trouble."

* * *

She couldn't believe how fast her heart was pounding as she drove down the street of the shoddy neighborhood. She scanned street signs for the name he had told her, and made a sharp left turn. She saw him huddled under the poor shelter of a bus stop outside of a dilapidated liquor store that look like it had its window broken on several occasions. She pulled up in the "No Parking— Busses Only" space, doubting any buses ever came to this stop anymore. She leaped out of the car and kneeled next to the poor boy, who was bloody and shaking as he shrank into the corner of the glass bus stop, hugging his legs with his face in his knees. 

"Danny?" she said tenderly, shocking him as he looked up startled. His face was bloody and growing a large purple bruise on his swollen cheek. His eyes welled, and without warning he leapt at her and flung his arms around her neck. He was still shaking, and was cold to the touch, but Sara held onto him tightly, balling her hands into fists on his back with silent fury at the man who did this to him.

"It's OK," she whispered to Danny. "It's OK, you're safe now. You're with me, now."

He was crying full force now, and Sara made sure to hold him like she'd never let him go. He was lost, without a family, and with nowhere to go. She knew what that felt like. She had to show him the way. She needed to help him.

"Sweetheart," she whispered into his ear. "Come on, get in the car, I'll take you somewhere to eat and we can get you some coffee, or hot chocolate, or whatever you want to warm you up, OK?"

She felt him nod against her shoulder, so she slowly rose to her feet, taking him with her, and helped him into the front seat of the car before going around and entering the driver's side. She looked at him, once more seeming so tiny in the passenger's seat, as he slumped and folded his arms. He sniffed and wiped his eyes, his cheeks flushing read, apparently embarrassed by the way he had desperately launched himself at Sara.

She smiled at him to reassure him and pushed the hair back from his face in a strangely motherly fashion. He looked at her and returned the smile.

"Uncle Ian said… the police are looking for me…" Danny whispered as Sara began to drive.

Sara licked her lips. "Yeah… I'm sorry, that was me. I didn't want to call him, but it was the only way I could reach you…"

"_You_ called?" Danny breathed, looking surprised. "But I thought…" He trailed off then turned away from her and looked out the window.

Sara noticed. "Yes… Danny, I wanted to talk to you about something." She paused at a stop sign and glanced at his shoes. "What size shoe do you where?"

"What?" he asked. "I don't know… It's been a while since I bought new shoes."

"Mm hm…" Sara nodded and kept driving down the road. "Is there something you want to tell me, Danny? Were you somewhere you weren't supposed to be tonight?"

"W-what are you talking about?" He tried to act cool, but Sara knew better.

"I need you to be honest with me, Danny," she said, calmly but firmly. "I need to know where you were earlier tonight. If you don't tell me, I can't help you."

"I don't want to talk about it," he said quietly.

Sara knew what that meant. "They found your footprint at a crime scene, Danny," she said. "Soon enough, they're going to match it with your shoe. There's blood on it, isn't there?" Though she didn't take her eyes off of the road, she felt Danny's terrified eyes boring holes into her.

"Stop the car," he said. "Let me out."

"Danny, I just want to help you," she said calmly. "I'm not going to turn you in."

"You're… you're not?" He sounded timid, but surprised.

"No, I'm not," she said. "Not yet, at least. Not if you tell me the truth."

"But… it's your job…" he said quietly.

She gave him a fleeting, sad smile. "I know that," she said. "I can't let you go either, of course. But I want to know what happened. Why you were at that crime scene. There's no reason to be scared if you were there on accident. If you saw something you shouldn't have seen."

"I'm gonna have to tell the police eventually now, aren't I?" He sounded dejected, scared.

Sara couldn't lie. So she simply repeated her promise. "I won't turn you in yet, but I can't let you go, Danny."

"Yet," Danny muttered. "I don't want to tell the police. I don't want to talk to anybody about it. I just want everyone to leave me alone."

"Do you trust me, Danny?" Sara asked softly, turning into the parking lot of an IHOP.

He didn't answer for a moment, but then, "Yes."

"Then listen to me," she said. "You're obviously tangled in a very big mess. And I want to help you as much as I can. I'll be with you every step of the way as we sort this out together. I won't abandon you in this, Danny. I know you're a good kid. I know you want to help me." She turned off the engine and looked at Danny pointedly, his wide green eyes staring back at her. "OK?"

His lip quivered, and he looked very reluctant. But eventually, he nodded. "OK," he said.


	9. Greg's Story

_**Author's Note:**_ Hm... Sara being naive... Haldir's Heart and Soul brought this up, I just wanted to address it here for the class, because I can understand how one can interpret her behavior as being naive. But let's consider what she knows about Danny versus what we know about Danny. Sara knows: A) That Danny is a sixteen-year-old boy, small for his age, and abused by his father. B) That he was present at a crime scene (but may not have committed the actual crime) C) That he's scared as hell. I agree that she IS taking a little bit of a leap of faith on this kid, but in my personal opinion, I don't think she's being naive. You're free to think so, however, and don't apologize for it. Maybe I'm naive too, so I wrote Sara that way. (Shrugs). Anyways, the resolution to Chapter Seven's deadly cliffhanger. Sorry for the obscenely short chapter, but I figured it had a lot of information you can sort through, so while quantity is lacking, quality isn't. And besides, Chapter Ten is quite long, for these chapters anyway. Enjoy. Oh, and it's totally awesome you're reviewing, great to know you're reading and loving it, but "update soon" is a little redundant when it comes to me, as I generally do. Thanks for the feedback nonetheless though, and, the hell with it, if you want to say "Update Soon!" again in your next review, it's no skin off my nose. ;o)

PS: Sorry for the delay. I was going to update this morning, but my usual cafe's internet was down, so I was wireless-less ;o)

* * *

Chapter Nine: Greg's Story 

"You had something for me?"

Greg startled Grissom and he looked up from the card before slowly nodding. "Sit down, Greg," he said. Looking confused, Greg did so. Grissom pushed the card, photograph, and envelope across the table to the young CSI, who took it all and looked at it. His confused expression slowly dissolved into one of utter coldness as he stared at what the inside of the card said. Greg took the photo and looked at it, flipping it over like Grissom had done, though he didn't look at the perverse drawing for nearly as long as Grissom had. Instead, he rose to his feet, tucked the photo into the card and the card into the envelope and nodded at Grissom.

"Thanks, Grissom," he said, his voice low. "I'll, uh… Get back to work now."

"Greg," Grissom said as Greg made for the door. "I know a threat when I see one. What's going on?"

Greg's back was to him, but Grissom saw his head bend forward and his shoulders slump. He continued towards the exit, and Grissom was about to call his name again when he saw that Greg was just closing the door, not leaving. When this was done, he turned to Grissom with a blank stare.

"OK," he said. "What do you want to know?"

Grissom nodded at the card in Greg's hand. "What does that mean?"

"I don't know," Greg said. "I mean…" He took a seat across from Grissom. "When I was a kid, I had a sister."

"Apparently," Grissom said. "But you told me you were an only child."

"I am now."

Grissom nodded, quietly. "OK. What happened to her?"

"She was six years old and it was Christmas Eve," Greg explained. "And… we were listening to Brenda Lee. And we were laughing, and singing, and Lucy was so excited…" He laughed at the memory of it, then shook his head. "And then…" he swallowed. "He broke into our house. He had a gun. He told us to get under the table and not to move and he proceeded to rob the house. Lucy started… crying. I mean, you couldn't blame her, I almost started crying myself. He told us to shut her up, but she couldn't help it. He took everything of value he could see, then headed for our Christmas tree. She screamed when he picked up one of the presents. He thought by the way she was screaming that it was something valuable. But it was a…" He closed his eyes tight and held his breath before continuing. "It was just a picture she had drawn for Mom. She'd put it in a box, and I helped her wrap it… She didn't want him to open it, she said. She told him it wasn't Christmas yet, and that present was for Mom, not for him. I tried to keep her quiet, I put my hand over her mouth, but the guy wasn't amused. He took out his gun and pointed it right at my baby sister…"

"He killed her," Grissom deduced after Greg trailed off.

To his surprise, Greg shook his head. "Not then. My mom let out a crazy shriek— I told you how protective she was of me. Multiply that by ten and you got how insane she was over Lucy. My sister was pale and small, and so fragile. She was born prematurely, and always seemed a little weaker than she probably should have been. Anyways, the guy turned on my mother and slapped her across the face. I gathered Lucy into a huge hug and she held on tight to me. The guy noticed. He told me to move. I didn't. He told me he would kill me too, that he had no problem with that. And Grissom… I let her go."

The tears were making their way unbidden down his cheeks now and he looked away. "I was only ten years old. I was scared. But Lucy, she held on to my neck so tightly, and my mother told me to… protect her. And the guy was yelling at me to let her go or he'd put a bullet in both our brains. They hadn't noticed that my grip on her had slackened, that I was trying to break the death-grip her arms had around my neck. She was screaming so loud, Grissom… And then I did it. I pushed my sister back onto the floor and stared at her, and she stared at me. And that's when he took out his gun and shot her. And she was still looking at me. Even as the blood poured out of her skull. And my eyes never left her…

"My mom was sobbing hysterically, yelling, screaming, struggling against my father's grip to run to her baby. The man holstered his gun and shouldered his sack of prizes like some grotesque, backwards Santa Claus before looking at us all in turn. He told us if we didn't tell the police what he looked like, he would let us live. But if he found out we gave them a description, he'd come back and kill us all."

Greg wiped the tears off his cheeks and shook his head. "But that was a long time ago. I don't like to think about it, really."

"Did you ever tell the police about this guy?" Grissom asked.

Greg shook his head. "I mean, not at first. My mother, she wouldn't talk to me for weeks. She had some sort of break down, you couldn't get a coherent sentence out of her that wasn't 'He killed my baby.' What's worse, sometimes she'd look directly at me when she said it. Sometimes, she'd even point."

"Greg…" Grissom said slowly, not exactly sure of what to say to reassure his young friend.

"To tell you the truth, I don't know if she's ever really forgiven me," Greg said. "I mean, she got over it, she got counseling, and she was fine again after a month or so. I mean, she wasn't crazy anymore. For a while, because of her behavior, and Dad's and my reluctance to describe our attacker, the cops thought that I…" He swallowed. "That I'd fired the gun. Me. A ten-year-old boy kill his six-year-old sister over sibling rivalry. My mother was acting so crazy, they assumed it had to be something more hideous than just watching her daughter die. It had to be watching her son kill her daughter, a conflict of loyalties. As if watching your daughter die isn't hideous enough.

"Anyway, when my mom was… recovering… Dad and I decided it would be best… to tell the police what he looked like, to help clear my name. I mean, he wasn't wearing a mask, and I never forget a face. So we did. But by that time, it was far too late. He had probably already left the state by then. And when my mother was lucid again, she told them I didn't kill Lucy. So that cleared that mess up.

"When my mom got better, she never let me out of her sights for a second. I mean, it was bad before, but her protectiveness had reached… insane levels. When I graduated early and was headed off to college, she wanted to _move in_ with me, saying I wasn't old enough to live by myself, claiming something might happen. She infringed on my life to the point of making me so miserable sometimes because she chased away most of the friends I made. My mother loves me, Grissom. But I think she also hates me a little, too."

Grissom knew it was finally his time to speak, but while he was a master with the words of philosophers and poets, when it came to coming up with his own to soothed damaged souls, he always found himself grasping at straws. So he did what he always did when he found himself lost for words. He borrowed them from someone else. "A mother's love is peace. It need not be acquired, it need not be deserved."

"And where's that from?" Greg muttered.

"Erick Fromm."

"Never heard of him," Greg said.

"He was a psychologist," Grissom told him.

Greg scoffed. "Figures a psychologist would talk about love like that."

"Would you prefer Washington Irving?" Grissom asked.

"What's he got to say about it?" Greg inquired.

Grissom smiled. "A father may turn his back on his child, brothers and sisters may become inveterate enemies, husbands may desert their wives, wives their husbands. But a mother's love endures through all."

"Right…" Greg said.

"I'm sorry you had to relive all that, Greg," Grissom said quietly. "In fact, I'm sorry it happened to you at all. But if this guy is our Sneaky Santa Killer…"

"Then I'm the reason he's here," Greg said.

"Greg, that's not what I—"

"But it's true," Greg said. "Look at the card, look what it _says_. He's mocking me. He came to _Vegas_ because of me. Those families might still be alive if I had just—"

"If you had just what, Greg?" Grissom asked. "Held on to your sister and let him kill you too? What good would that have done?"

"If I had just turned him in in the _first _place," Greg finished.

"You can't know if they would have caught him if you'd told them earlier," Grissom said. "And it probably wouldn't have changed much else if they didn't."

"_If_ being the key word," Greg muttered.

Grissom sighed. "Look. Sara, Nick and Warrick are on that case, so they'll deal with it."

"Do they have to…?" Greg didn't finish the question but he didn't have to.

"It's evidence, Greg," Grissom replied, sounding truly remorseful. "I'm sorry, but they have to know."

"Can't you like… disguise my identity or something?" Greg begged. "Do all three of them have to know? Can you just tell one of them? It's not something I want advertised around the lab, you know?"

There was a knock at the closed door. "Grissom?" Warrick's voice called. "You in there?"

"Yes, Warrick, come in," Grissom replied and the door opened showing not only Warrick, but Nick as well.

"You guys haven't been loitering about out there, have you…?" Greg asked with a nervous laugh. Warrick looked at him curiously momentarily before dismissing it. But Nick's inscrutable gaze didn't leave Greg. Greg became so uncomfortable that he had to look away.

"Nah, we just got here," Warrick said to Grissom.

"And Sara just skedaddled," Nick added, tearing his eyes off of Greg. "One of those, 'no time to explain!' emergencies."

"I hate those," Grissom sighed. "I never know what they might entail. I guess there's no point in worrying now, though." He looked at Greg for a moment, and Greg began to fidget uncomfortably. He took a deep breath. He wanted to tell Greg that they would understand. He wanted to tell Greg that it would all turn out OK, even though he wasn't sure of either of these things. But it was part of a case. It was necessary that they know. It couldn't be helped. "Meanwhile, Greg has some new evidence for your case."

Greg's eyes fell away from Grissom and his head slumped again in defeat. "Can I talk to Sara?" he mumbled timidly. "Please?"

Grissom knew Greg wasn't close with Warrick, and was bickering with Nick, so Sara was probably the one he would be most comfortable speaking with. But unfortunately, Sara had run out on them, and he needed this case solved now. "I wish you could, Greg," he said, sounding unusually sympathetic for Grissom.

"I can wait," Greg said anxiously, looking up at Grissom. "I can wait for Sara to come back and I can tell her then."

"I need this case solved as fast as possible, Greg," Grissom said, matter-of-factly. His voice had returned to normal volumes, his tone more characteristically Grissom-like. "Another family could be murdered tonight. If we can figure out _anything_ about him, maybe we can stop that from happening."

And then, Nick broke into the conversation. "If this is something personal, Greg…" he began, making both Greg and Grissom turn to him, "then you can… talk to me about it. If you want."

Greg's eyes seem to widen, and then a smile slowly lit up his face. "Um… Yeah. Sure, OK, I'll talk to Nick," he said.

Grissom smiled.


	10. Girls and Boys

_**Author's Note:**_ Thanks for keeping up with this. Other than that, I actually have nothing to say. R&R.

* * *

Chapter Ten: Girls and Boys

"I want to _die_!" he exclaimed as he wolfed down the pancakes in front of him. "These are _amazing_!"

"You've never been to an IHOP before?" Sara asked with a raise of her eyebrow.

He gave her a sarcastic look. "As if," he said, and then continued to eat the pancakes.

She smiled. "Well, I'm glad you're enjoying it. Are you ready to tell me what you were doing at my friends' crime scene?"

"No," he said with his mouth full.

She frowned at him. "Danny, you said you trusted me. I can't help you if I don't know what happened."

Danny sighed and put down his knife and fork. He looked up at Sara. "I won't go to jail?"

"That depends on if you tell me the truth or not," Sara replied. "Did you do anything you think you should go to jail for?"

He looked down. "Is listening to your stupid friend a crime?"

"Tell me what happened, Danny," Sara pleaded.

Danny sighed. "I didn't want to do it. Really, I didn't, I just… I wanted to have a nice Christmas for once. With Ian, that sort of thing is hard. And I care about him so much…"

"Ian?" Sara asked, confused, but Danny shook his head.

"Mickey," he said.

This was the first Sara had heard this name. "Who is Mickey?"

"Mickey Andrews," Danny explained, "is my very best friend in the world. You have to understand that, otherwise I'll sound like such a terrible person. I would do anything for Mickey, he's been through a lot, and he needs me. His whole family abandoned him on account of he's gay, and he was molested by a teacher at his school. And when he tried to tell the principal, he was already known as a liar and a troublemaker, so he was expelled. Now, he lives with me, because I'm all he's got. And frankly, he's all I've got too."

"You've got me," Sara said softly.

Danny smiled, and blushed a little. "I know that, now," he said. "Thanks."

She reached out and covered his hand with her own. This gave him the courage to continue. "We met at the school, before Ian took me out. He's been living in my tree house. I sleep there with him sometimes. Well, about a month ago, he got this idea into his head. He said there was this person he had to take care of and… and then he started… planning. All these things, all based on the Sneaky Santa Killer. He collected newspapers like valued baseball cards. He learned every detail, planned everything. And then he stole a gun from my uncle's room. And he went to that house… And… And… And then he didn't just kill one person, like I thought. He killed all of them… And… I didn't kill anyone, honest I didn't! I played guard dog, I looked out for him, and I helped take the stuff, but I didn't kill anyone. He wanted me to, but I couldn't do it. I couldn't do it. Sara… Sara, please don't look at me like that."

Sara's expression had faded from warm understanding to a cold inscrutability that Danny couldn't read and he didn't like it. She swallowed. "Danny… This is very bad."

Danny jumped to his feet. "You said you wouldn't turn me in!" he said, his voice cracking with panic.

Sara's eyes widened, telling him to sit down. "And I won't," she said. "Not until I talk to Mickey."

Danny calmed down as he sat back down, taking deep breaths. "I can't let you do that," he said.

"Danny, if what you're telling me is true, then Mickey is a _killer_," Sara said sternly. "I don't care what his reasons were, he killed a mother and a father, and two innocent kids. A nine-year-old girl and a twelve-year-old boy. Their names were Luke and Erika. The parents names were Karen and Jonathan. And Mickey _killed_ them, Danny!"

He was playing with his food. "You didn't have to do that," he whispered. "You didn't have to tell me their names."

"I know you care about him," Sara said, trying to be understanding. "And I know you want what's best for him. But think about what he did a minute here, Danny. He planned a quadruple homicide, that's four counts of murder one, Danny. Do you even know _why_ he did it? _Why_ he chose this family?"

Slowly, reluctantly, Danny shook his head.

Sara sighed and leaned across the table so she could cup his cheek in her hand as she looked him in the eye. "Danny… sweetie… I want to help you, I do. But if I take you in now, with those shoes, you're going to be the prime and only suspect in that case, and they won't believe a word you say because of it. We've got to find Mickey. We've got to find Mickey so I can help you."

But Danny pulled away from her touch and folded his arms resolutely as he shook his head. "I'm not selling out my best friend," he said. "Not even for you, Sara."

"Danny, it's only a matter of time before the evidence leads to Mickey anyway," Sara replied. "Catherine had DNA evidence, Greg ran your shoe tread… They _will_ find you. _Both_ of you. And when they do, I won't be able to help you as much as I can right now. If we go in there, you can talk to Captain Brass, I'll help you out, I'll get you a lawyer, and you'll probably get a suspended sentence for accessory and tried as a juvenile. And we can help Mickey, too. If he confesses, if he cooperates, he'll get a much better deal than he would if they find him on their own, which, I can assure you Danny, _will_ happen."

The mentions of the CSI names seemed to stir something in Danny and he looked up at Sara, curiously. "Is it true that Greg killed his sister?"

Sara blinked. "What?"

"We looked it up at the library," Danny said. "Mickey wanted dirt on the two CSIs at the crime scene. It said he was suspected of killing his sister, but he was cleared. Do you know if he actually did it and got away with it?"

"You must be talking about a different Greg Sanders…" Sara replied, shaking her head.

"Greg Sanders from San Gabriel, California. Parents, Mark Sanders and Olivia Hojem-Sanders. Sister, Lucy Sanders, April 1979-December 1985. Am I warm?"

Sara knew Greg lived in San Gabriel, and his mother's maiden name. But Greg never had a sister that she knew of, or at least he had never mentioned her. She shook it off. "This is irrelevant, Danny. You're trying to change the subject."

"I'm not," Danny protested. "If your friend Greg can get away with murder, why can't I?"

Sara didn't like these accusations. "Danny, leave Greg out of this. This is about _you_. Take me to Mickey."

Danny was shaking his head. "He won't like that," he said, sounding cool and disconnected.

"I really want to help you, Danny," Sara said. "I'm trying the only way I know how."

"You could just let me go," Danny suggested.

"I can't do that," Sara replied. "It isn't right."

"It isn't legal, you mean," Danny corrected. "It sounds 'right' to me."

He was being difficult on purpose, and Sara could tell. He was trying to make her angry, to push her away, so maybe she would abandon him and he could make a run for it. She was determined to thwart this plan. "You can try to upset me, Danny, but it won't work. I'm not leaving you alone. There's only one way we can make this work and that is if we find your friend."

He was conflicted, Sara could tell. He thought about it for a long time. Finally, he sighed. "I'm supposed to meet him at the library soon," he said quietly. "He's probably there right now."

"Good," Sara said, rising to her feet. "Let's go."

* * *

Greg sat there with his hands between his knees as he stared at the floor, Nick sitting opposite him and equally quiet. 

They hadn't spoken for so long that when Greg broke the silence, his voice sounded unnaturally loud. "I know that…" He paused, reeling from the sound of his own voice echoing in his head. "I know that you already think that I don't… appreciate privacy," he said. "But it's only by focusing on something else that I can keep my own secrets. I do appreciate privacy, Nick. I don't care what it was that had Catherine all shook up, I only care that she _was_ shook up. I understand that she might want to keep things to herself. I didn't want to tell you this, either. I didn't want to tell anyone this." He looked up at Nick. "You hate me right now, don't you?"

"No," Nick said, his own voice also loud in the quiet room. "No, Greg, I don't hate you. You were just a kid. And you were scared and you didn't know what to do. You didn't do anything wrong."

"About Catherine…" Greg began, but Nick cut him off.

"About Catherine nothing," he said. "I've been thinking about it a lot and I haven't seen her yet, but I think you were right. Work relationships are a bad idea. And they do affect everyone."

"No," Greg said. "I wasn't…" He looked away from Nick. "I mean, I was… kinda jealous, that's all."

Nick frowned, confused. "Jealous?"

"Well, yeah," Greg said. "I mean, Catherine is fantastic, and the last girlfriend I had was a total airhead, she didn't know thymine from uracil. Plus, I've been jumping through hoops for this one girl, and she barely acknowledges my existence, so… I'm happy for you, man. Really, I am. If you like her, I say go for it."

Nick smiled appreciatively at him. "OK, Greg," he said. He rose to his feet and shook the letter Greg had handed him. "I'm going to process this personally, OK? Warrick and Sara won't lay a hand on it, cross my heart. No one else needs to know."

"I really appreciate that, Nick," Greg said quietly, and Nick headed towards the door. "It's why everyone trusts you, you know," he said loudly, making Nick stop.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"You're good at making people feel normal," Greg replied, turning in his chair to smile at Nick. "You're good at making people feel… safe."

"I hate to break it to you, pal," Nick said with a smirk. "But you're so far from normal, you're on another planet."

"Planet, schmanet," Greg said dismissively.

Nick and Greg's eyes met and they both grinned. When they spoke, they said the same thing simultaneously. "Janet."

There was a knock before someone opened the door. Catherine poked her head in. "Hey, Greg, Grissom told me you were…" She trailed off at the sight of Nick, but quickly shook it off. "… in here. Um… I'll be outside when you boys are done, OK?"

"Catherine, wait," Nick said as she made to leave. But she closed the door and he followed her, walking swiftly after her as she made her way down the hall. "Catherine!"

She stopped and spun around. "OK, I'm sorry, Nick," she burst out, finally, sounding like she had held this in all night. "I'm so sorry, I don't know what came over me, I really care about you as a friend, and I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable for any reason, and it would kill me if I ruined that, so I'm _sorry_!"

"Hey," Nick said seriously. "If I recall, I was kissing you back."

She frowned. "Wha…?"

He grinned as he approached her and slid his arms around her waist, pulling her close to him. She was startled and she stumbled, the palms of her hands resting on his chest. She looked up at him. "Cath… If you're really sorry about what happened, well then… Fine. But the truth is, I'm not."

To his great surprise, she pushed him away and shook her head. "I'm… sorry, Nick," she said. "For… everything." She backed away from Nick, still shaking her head apologetically before she turned and made her way down the hall, leaving Nick to stare blankly after her.

Greg exited the room and stood next to his friend. "I take it you didn't exactly sweep her off her feet?"

Nick's dark brown eyes were staring at the spot Catherine had disappeared. "I thought we both wanted the same thing…"

Greg followed his gaze. "Girls," he said. "They can really put you in a funk, eh?"

* * *

Sara pulled up outside of the university library. Danny turned to her. 

"You stay here," he said. "Let me talk to Mickey. Bring him down slowly."

"OK," Sara said.

Danny looked at her for a long time. "You promise me that he'll be treated well? He's been through enough as it is."

"I…" Sara didn't know what she could promise him. "I can promise to you that his past will be taken into account," she said. "He'll be treated as fairly as anyone."

He grimaced, obviously not happy with her words. "I just want him to be safe. I want him to be OK."

"I understand that, Danny, I really do," Sara said.

He smiled at her and leaned over the space between the seats to embrace her. She returned it and he whispered in your ear. "You remind me of my mother," he said. "Only a lot stronger."

She smiled appreciatively at the compliment then pulled away. She looked at Danny, trying to instill courage in him to stand up to his friend. "You can do this, Danny. I know you can."

He nodded. "OK. I'll be back in a minute."

Danny jumped out of the car and entered the library lobby. He gave a polite nod to the librarian, who didn't look like she was happy to be there at all. He found Mickey lurking by the magazine section, a copy of the latest _Time Magazine_ sprawled across his lap as he read. He looked up at Danny, his face wearing a peculiar expression that Danny couldn't decipher. He didn't know what he had expected of Mickey. Annoyance at the fact that Danny was late, relief at seeing Danny had made it at all, shock at the livid bruise growing on his cheek, or just happy to see him in general. But Mickey was none of these things. His face was completely calm, casual, as though meeting an acquaintance he hadn't been expecting.

"There's an article in here about Benedict Arnold."

"I've never heard of him," Danny said. And he knew that Mickey hadn't either, until he'd read the article, but nonetheless Mickey looked surprised and condescended to him in a very irritating manner.

"_You've_ never heard of _Benedict Arnold_?"

"Who was he, an astronaut?" Danny asked. "Did he invent eggs benedict or something?"

Mickey laughed in a contemptuous way and Danny was beginning to feel uneasy. "No, you dolt, Benedict Arnold fought for the American Revolution. Until he got control over West Point and planned to surrender it to the British. I would have thought you would have heard of him, Danny, you being so smart and all. I would have thought he was your _hero_."

"I flunked history and you _know_ it," Danny snapped, angrily. "And what does he have to do with me, Mickey, huh? Aren't you glad to see me? Aren't you glad to see that I'm OK? That Ian didn't _kill_ me? He saw me kissing you, you know. He beat me for being gay."

"But you're _not_ gay!" Mickey said, in mock innocence as he threw the _Time Magazine_ aside. "Or, at least, that's what I heard you shouting at him when he hit you."

If this was all Mickey was mad about, Danny could deal with it. "Well, what do you expect me to say, Mickey, when I'm getting my ass kicked by a gay-basher? Do you want me to wave my little rainbow flag? Do you want me to launch my own little pride parade? Hell _no_. I kept a low profile—"

"But it's true, isn't it?" Mickey asked, now on his feet and inches away from Danny's face. "It's true that you're not gay. Isn't it?"

Danny laughed, nervously. "What are you talking about, Mickey, of course it's not true—"

"Then kiss me," Mickey said simply. "Kiss me right here and prove it."

Danny's lip quivered. "I told you, Mickey, not in public—"

"Not in public," Mickey deadpanned, his lips straight as he nodded. "Not in public, that's what you always say. You know, I always thought you were just in the closet? Which, you know, is annoying, but tolerable. You're embarrassed, that's OK, I went through that stage too, and I would help you be OK with yourself eventually. But if that's the case, Danny, then tell me something. Tell me why every time I kiss you, in public or not, you're always so reluctant? Tell me why you tense up when I put my arm around you? Tell me why I'm the one initiating _everything_?"

Danny felt helpless. He didn't know what to say. "Mickey, I love—"

Mickey cut him off with a brief, disbelieving laugh as he shook his head. "No, Danny. You don't."

He turned around and shook his head as he walked back over to the magazine rack, tracing the titles absently as he spoke. "You know, Danny… I really wish you'd told me this sooner, that you were straight. It would have saved me a whole lot of grief, worrying about you. But you understand now, why I can't trust you completely, right? Because in the end, you trust someone too much, you get betrayed. Still, I trusted you a little, didn't I? And because of that… I got betrayed. A little." He looked at Danny over his shoulder. "I saw you with that whore."

Danny frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

"After I left, I was worried about you…" Mickey said, in a small voice, as though this tiny sign of emotion was some sort of weakness now. "So I stuck around. I watched. You said some pretty nice things about me, Danny, I heard. That is, if you meant them."

"Mickey, of _course_ I meant them—" Danny began but Mickey cut him off again.

"Like you _meant_ that you're not gay?"

Danny faltered. "Mickey—"

"So which is it, Danny?" Mickey asked. "Were you lying? Or were you telling the truth? Either way, it doesn't matter, because I'll find out soon enough."

"What are you talking about, Mickey?" Danny asked, slightly frightened now.

Mickey was stern. "You went to that phone, and you called _her_," he said, spitting out her name as though he was disgusted by it. "You waited for _her_ and then you let her _touch_ you and baby you and take you in her car…" His next words came out in a furious whisper. "_You were supposed to meet me here at the library and instead you call a cop!_"

"She's not a cop, she's a CSI, and she wants to help us," Danny said, glad that they were on the subject. "She wants to _help_, Mickey—"

"Bullshit," Mickey spat. "She wants to lock you up, Danny, I'm the only friend you've got. So this is what you've gotta do for me…"

"I don't want to do anything to hurt Sara," Danny said, knowing exactly where this was going.

A small, sinister smile curled itself on Mickey's lips. "Oh, we won't hurt her," he said, his voice sickeningly sweet. "Much."

"I won't do it," Danny said, folding his arms resolutely.

"It's her or me, Danny," Mickey said seriously. "Either you go with her, and probably a lifetime in prison for accessory to murder, or you go with me and we can runaway to Panama together. Just like you always dreamed of doing with your Dad, but never could. Choose now, Danny, and choose wisely, because if you choose wrong, you'll be losing a very good friend."

Danny took deep breaths and stared at Mickey for a long time.


	11. Traitors

_**Author's Note:**_ I wanted to apologize for the Rocky Horror reference that may have thrown a few people last chapter (Planet, Schmanet, Janet). Just know it was a pop culture reference and leave it at that. As for this chapter, I hope it shows a little more of Sara's thought processes while speaking with Danny (as you may have noticed, all deals she's made with him have been written from his point of view, and for a reason. ;o) )

* * *

Chapter Eleven: Traitors

"The coal, in your stocking," Hodges told Warrick. "It's got traces of copper, just like the others."

"So this is really our guy," Warrick said. "Great, did you get anything else?"

"Yeah," he said. "A hair, in amongst the coal lumps, follicular tag and everything. Kicked it over to Wendy a while ago, she should be able to tell you about that."

Nick skidded into the room. "Wendy's got a match," he said, as if he'd been eavesdropping. "And you won't believe who she's got."

"Spit it out," Warrick said.

"A psychiatrist by the name of Dr. Rupert Norris, on file as a volunteer for a clinical study down in Arizona two years ago on the role of genetics in deviant behavior. And get this: he was used as the control, the 'sane' person."

"A psychiatrist," Warrick deadpanned. "A _crazy_ psychiatrist. A crazy shrink is threatening Greg and killing families on Christmas Eve?"

"Brass is bringing him in now," Nick said with a grin. "It looks like he finally screwed up."

* * *

Sara drummed her fingers on the wheel of the car as she watched Danny enter the library. The second he disappeared, she reached for her phone and dialed. 

"Brass."

"I'm going to need you to make an arrest," she said calmly.

"Sara? Where are you?"

"UNLV campus," Sara replied calmly. "Over by the library. I have a suspect inside. He's being talked out now. How fast can you make it here?"

"I can send over the campus police," Brass suggested. "They can be there in a few minutes. I'm a little tied up here, but I can be there myself in maybe an hour if I'm lucky. Don't do anything until our boys get there, OK?"

"Wouldn't dream of it," Sara said, eying the door to the library.

"Oh, wait, Sara…" Brass said, sounding distracted. "Apparently there was a murder on the other side of campus, all units are there right now blocking off the scene. New ETA is about ten minutes."

Sara was suddenly nervous. She didn't know how long Danny and Mickey would be inside, or what she would do if they came out and there were no cops there. "I can't keep them inside," she said. "But I can keep them distracted."

"Don't you even think about it, Sara, do you understand me?" Brass said sternly.

"Brass, he's a kid, I can handle him," Sara assured him. "Plus, I have a friend helping me out. It's two on one, and I have a gun and he doesn't."

"Are you sure of that?"

Sara paused. "No," she said. "But I doubt he kept the murder weapon."

"All in all, it's best not to be over confident. Don't do anything until the cops get there. Understand?"

Sara grumbled. She'd have to keep up pretenses if Mickey and Danny came out. She'd have to pretend like she wanted to help Mickey too. That wasn't risky, it was imperative. "Fine, I won't do anything…" she said to Brass.

"Thanks," he said and hung up.

"…stupid," she added as she looked out the window at the library. She wondered what Danny would think, when he came out to squad cars. He wouldn't trust her anymore. But she needed to do this. She didn't care who Mickey was; no excuse was good enough to kill an entire family.

She saw Danny heading towards her. He looked tired, depressed, almost scared, but that was to be expected. The fact that he was alone told her something wasn't right. He opened the passenger door and got inside.

"He's not coming," he said quietly.

"He can't not come," Sara said. "Danny, he murdered a family—"

"Don't you think I know that?" Danny snapped, angrily, making Sara recoil in surprise.

She tried a different approach. "OK, then. Why isn't he coming?"

"He thinks I betrayed him," Danny replied. "He called me Benedict Arnold."

"That's ridiculous, Benedict Arnold _planned_ to—"

"That's not the point, is it?" Danny interrupted, obviously frustrated. "And now…" his voice got quiet and a tear escaped from his eye. "Now, I'm conflicted."

She was confused. "About what?"

"He gave me an ultimatum," Danny explained, quietly. "I had to choose. You or him."

Sara nodded, understanding now why he seemed so dejected and angry. "Danny, it'll be OK."

"No, it won't," he said, refusing to look at her. "I think I made the wrong choice."

"You made the right choice," she told him, firmly. "You made a good choice."

He looked at her then with tears in his eyes and shook his head. He swallowed. "Thank you, Sara," he said, his voice trembling, "for everything you've done for me. You're a good person."

"Danny…" Sara began, not knowing what to say. "Where is he? Is he still in the library?"

"You have to understand," he said quickly, ignoring her question. "You're better than I am. And that's why…" He looked away. "I'm not as good a person as you, Sara," he whispered. "And that's why I didn't choose you."

She frowned, confused, and suddenly strangely unnerved. And then, from behind her there was a shattering glass and she turned to see a tall, lanky teen holding a crowbar.

"He chose me," he said, braggingly, and then suddenly there was a burst of pain against her temple and everything went black.

* * *

"I didn't screw up," the man said as he calmly looked at his nails in the interrogation room. "It was a gift." The man, obviously quite affluent, was well groomed, with neatly trimmed brown hair and eyes to match. He was clean-shaven and wore a suit and tie and looked like he couldn't be more relaxed anywhere else in the world. 

"A gift," Brass repeated skeptically. "To who?"

The man looked up and smiled at Brass. "To Greg," he replied simply. "After all, I owe everything to him, don't I?"

"OK," Brass said, intrigued by this man in spite of himself as he slipped into a chair opposite him. "I don't get you. We call you up and you answer as if you've been expecting us, and calmly and cooperatively come into the station. You agree to speak with us without a lawyer, and now… is that a confession I hear coming out of your mouth, Dr. Norris?"

"I have one condition," Dr. Norris said, his eyes on Brass. "I will tell you everything. I will give you intimate details about all twenty-four crime scenes and a full confession, no strings attached but one. I want to speak with the boy. I want to speak with Greg. Alone. Without any eavesdroppers. If I find that a single person is listening to our conversation, then the deal is off."

"We have your DNA at a crime scene," Brass hissed. "You're in no position to be making deals."

A twisted smile distorted Dr. Norris's features. "You were an only child, weren't you Captain Brass?"

"What?" Brass said, uninterestedly. He didn't have time for this. He looked at his watch. He was supposed to head over to UNLV a while ago.

"Or perhaps the oldest son," Dr. Norris added. "The way you walk and act. You think you can control me. No one ever tried to control you."

Brass rolled his eyes. "Creeps like you have tried to 'read' me before, Dr. Norris. You're not the first guy to pull the psycho-psychic routine on me."

"You were married once," Dr. Norris continued, "but it didn't end well. You thought you could control her too. She was a wild horse, and that's why you married her. But she wasn't to be tamed, was she Captain?"

This was more annoying than anything else. "OK, this is getting old and I have places to be. You can either confess now, or we can take you to a holding cell and let you think about it. God knows, we don't really need it. We have everything we need to make a solid case against you."

Dr. Norris still looked as relaxed as a cat as he stretched out in his chair. "You see, Captain, I read people. It's what I _do_, as a profession. It's what you do, too, isn't it? So, Captain, tell me. What does my body language say about me?"

Brass narrowed his eyes. Dr. Norris was beating around the bush. He was playing games Brass didn't want to play. And yet, he felt if he quit the game now, he would miss something vitally important. "You're… calm," Brass said. "At ease. You're arrogant and self-assured."

"And if I'm being convicted on multiple counts of murder…" Dr. Norris said, "why on _earth_ would I be self-assured?"

And then, Brass realized it wasn't a game anymore. At least, not for him. "I don't know."

"It is the twenty-fifth of December today. And Sneaky Santa has been striking houses since the first. Why not go out with a bang on Christmas Day? Why not hit somewhere… close to home. My advent calendar is almost ended and you have yet to figure out what the prize is behind the last door. Do you really think I would come here without ensuring that my big finale would come to pass?"

"What do you have planned, Doctor?" Brass snarled angrily.

Dr. Norris laughed. "The boy first," he said. "Questions later. And do be quick about it, would you? Children might die tonight."

Brass glowered at Dr. Norris. "If you think I'm going to leave you alone in a room with Greg Sanders, you've got to be on something. I'll have them test you for drugs. And not the fun, pee-in-a-cup kind of tests. But the more invasive, painful kind of tests."

"Of course I don't expect you to not _watch_ us," Dr. Norris laughed. "You may see behind the glass if you like, to make sure I behave. But if I find out you're listening…"

Brass ground his teeth. He didn't want to do this. He didn't want to put Greg in that kind of position. But if what this man said was true, and who's to say it wasn't…

"I'll ask him," Brass said slowly, "if he wants to speak with you."

Brass got up and left the room, his blood boiling. He saw Grissom, watching silently from behind the glass. "You hear what he's asking of us?"

Slowly, Grissom nodded. "I don't like it anymore than you do, Jim. But frisk him for weapons, keep an eye on him… What harm can talking do to Greg?"

Brass smiled, grimly. "You don't talk to guys like this everyday, Gil," he said. "Sometimes, they can get to you." And with that he left, out into the hall.

* * *

Sara's head hurt. The statement should have won an award for being the understatement of a century. Sara's skull was ready to crack in two and her brain had finally had enough and wanted out of this whole mess before it was turned into scrambled eggs inside her head. She closed her eyes tight and moaned lightly, her fingers flying to the epicenter of her radiating pain. She felt a large bump right beside her temple and her heart skipped a beat. An inch to the right and he could have launched her into a coma and her brain might have never forgiven her for that. 

He…

Who was he? What exactly had happened? Her brain was on strike for the way she had treated it and refused to remember. She rubbed her eyes and massaged her temples, trying to will her headache away and sooth her shaken brain enough to sort out all the fuzzy details.

First thing was first. She needed to determine where she was. She was lying down on something hard and cold. She felt around her with her palms. She was on a hard, plastic floor it seemed. That wasn't a good sign, but at least it was a start. She opened her eyes and was blinded by the bright florescent lights that buzzed around her head. But soon, her eyes adjusted and she made out the shadow of a bookcase looming over her. She tried to think, but her brain was still upset with her. She threatened to bang it against the floor to help jar her memory and at this it began to cooperate again.

Faces… names… cases… Christmas Eve… Danny. Mickey.

Oh no…

"Are you OK?"

The voice was only a whisper but it made her jump. Sara blinked and saw that Danny was kneeling by her side, holding her hand so tightly that it had gone numb and Sara hadn't even noticed.

She closed her eyes and nodded, though her brain didn't like even this smallest of movements. "Et tu, Brutus?"

"I don't speak Spanish," Danny replied, the reference going right over his head.

Sara was in no mood to explain Latin let alone Julius Caesar to the boy who had taken advantage of her. She let out a pained breath and rubbed the bump on the side of her head.

"What did he hit me with?" she asked.

"Gun," Danny replied, succinctly.

Nothing like being pistol-whipped in the face to bring you back to your senses. What was she _thinking_, going after Mickey without calling?

But wait. She did call. She _had_ called, she had called Brass, and he had sent units over—

"The cops," Danny said quietly, as if he could read her mind. "They're dead."

Sara's heart stopped beating. Brass? She wouldn't think of it. _Oh God, what if Grissom was with him?_

"What cops?" Sara said, trying to keep the tremble from her voice.

"Campus cops," Danny replied. "Mickey shot them."

Sara's heart continued to beat again. She had sympathy for the campus police officers who had lost their lives, but was so utterly relieved that it hadn't been Brass or Grissom. "Where is he?" she asked

Danny turned his head and Sara followed his gaze down the aisle of books. He was leaning on the front desk, chatting with the librarian who looked utterly horrified as she sat gagged and bound to her chair behind her desk.

"What does he want?" Sara asked. Danny didn't answer.

As if he knew they were talking about him, Mickey turned to look at Danny and Sara and he smiled. He strode over to them. "I see you're awake, Sara." He looked at Danny. "Listen. I need your hands."

She cocked an eyebrow. "You could have just asked."

He laughed. "No. I _mean_ that I need you mobile. Which is why you aren't tied up. But _she_ is." He gestured with his gun over his shoulder at the librarian. "If you misbehave, she dies. Do we have an understanding?"

Sara was more interested in why he needed her unbound than anything else. "What do you want from me?"

"Now, you may have noticed that you are missing your gun," Mickey continued, as if she hadn't spoken. "We have that now. We'll be taking care of you from here on out. If you do exactly as I say, then nobody has to get hurt, least of all you. Do you promise you won't pull any tricks?"

Sara glanced at Danny, who was begging her to say yes with his eyes. She sighed. "What am I going to say, no?"

Mickey smirked. He looked at Danny. "Your girl's smart."

"I'm not his girl," Sara hissed.

"Mickey?" Danny said, his voice trembling. "Can I talk to you over there for a second?"

Mickey nodded and he and Danny went over to another bookshelf and started talking. Sara glanced at the door. She had a clear path to it. She looked at the librarian, who had tears rolling down her cheeks and felt a pang of guilt. At that moment the librarian's eyes met with Sara's. Sara silently pleaded her, asking her permission. She nodded at the door. The librarian looked then let out a sob before looking away. Sara glanced at Danny and Mickey, who were arguing quietly now, totally distracted. It was now or never, no time for hesitations. She slid slowly to the door, creeping on her hands and knees. She was almost there, just a few more paces and she'd make it…

The huge crack rang in her ears as though it had occurred right next to her head. The librarian was wailing at the top of her lungs. Sara froze as the breath caught in her chest, her head screaming, her heart beating as fast as it possibly could as she stared at the hole in the floor in front of her, where she could have been in less than a second.

Slowly, she turned her head and saw Mickey aiming right at her, his gun still smoking. "I don't miss," he said. "I used to go hunting with my Dad. So don't think that was an accident. Now. Get back over by the bookcase and only do what I tell you to. Understand?"

Sara knew he wasn't lying. She nodded and headed back over to the bookcase. Danny sulked over by the front desk, trying to avoid Sara's eyes. Mickey approached her and handed her her own cell phone.

"I need you to do me a little favor," he said.


	12. Sierra Oscar Sierra

_**Author's Note:**_ I wasn't going to post this today. I was going to wait a day before I gave you the bad news (well, mixed news). This story has been officially put on "hiatus" status. That does not mean it won't be finished and posted, it just means that me and these characters are at a very frustrating impasse and until I figure out what I will do (which, I give you my solemn vow, I will), there will be no posting for a while. I promise you that the next chapter will be up before the end of August, so if it isn't, then feel free to pester me with PMs saying "How come you haven't updated yet?" Trust me, the gap between chapters for this story will be much shorter than the gaps some author's have. I just need some time to think and work on other projects (Currently a Mature Greg fic inspired by something fvhardy told me and a horror/romance Sara fic inspired by my own dream). If you're interested in either of these, a preview excerpt of the mature Greg fic (entitled "So Close To Home") will be included at the end of this chapter and may begin posting as this story rests for a moment. A video promo for "The Inbetweens" (the horror/romance) will be included on my profile later this morning. If you're curious about either of those endeavors and want to be someone I bounce ideas off of, or if you want to make sure to nag me to post this story (as I know that even though I reassure you now, you've been let down by so many other authors in the past who have abandoned their stories, though I hope by now I've gained some sort of reliability), feel free to add me on MSN, included in my profile. As Kegel will tell you, I love to chat about anything and everything. So don't be shy.

Also, brownie points to whoever gives me a good name for this chapter. :o)

* * *

Chapter Twelve: Sierra Oscar Sierra

Brass found Greg talking to Nick in the hall, and they both halted their conversation upon seeing Brass. "Greg," Brass said seriously. He glanced at Nick. "I'm… going to need a very big favor from you. But you don't have to do it. We can always find another way."

Greg looked surprised at his solemnity. "OK, man. No problem."

"No, there is a problem," Brass said. "We have a suspect in custody for the Sneaky Santa murders. He's threatening that he has another murder lined up, probably something like a bomb, set to go off with or without him, but we have no way to corroborate it. He says he'll only tell us what it is if—"

Brass was interrupted by Greg's singing cell phone. Greg held up a finger. "Hold that thought," he said and went to answer it. "Sanders."

"Greg, I need your help."

Greg smirked. "Wow, everyone just wants my help today. What's up, Sara?"

And then, he realized, she sounded scared and not like herself. "I'm going to need you and Catherine to come down to a crime scene. Someone's been killed."

He didn't like her tone. "Code 419?"

"No," she said simply. That meant it was a lie.

"So it's a code Sierra Oscar Sierra?"

"Yes."

"Right," Greg said, nodding, suddenly very nervous. "Any witnesses on the scene?"

She hesitated and then, there was a grunt of pain. "No…" she breathed.

He knew their code had been broken. He was desperate now. "What do you need me to do?"

"I just need you and Catherine to come down here, that's all," she replied.

"You know, babe, I'm kinda busy…" Greg said slowly. "Maybe I should send Grissom instead—"

"_No_!" she said sharply. "You and Catherine and no one else."

"OK…" Greg said. "Where's the scene?"

"UNLV library," Sara replied. "Right inside the lobby."

"I'll be there as fast as I can," he said and hung up. He looked at Nick and Brass. "Sara's in trouble."

"Sierra Oscar Sierra?" Nick said with a raise of his eyebrow. "That wasn't obvious."

"Well I couldn't remember the code number for '_This is a trap_!'" Greg snapped.

"Oh dammit, she did something stupid, didn't she?" Brass sighed. "I told her to stay put."

"What are you talking about?" Nick asked, suddenly sounding angry that Brass seemed to have guessed something like this might happen.

Brass rubbed his eyes, obviously very tired. "She called me about an hour ago to come and make an arrest. I sent over the campus cops, but…"

And then, Brass's phone was ringing. He looked at the caller ID and answered it. "Brass. Please tell me this is good news, Ed." There was a pause and Brass nodded. "Right, of course. Dammit. OK, get your guys out of there, wait for backup, I'm sending some over. Bye." He hung up and looked up at Greg and Nick. "That was the chief of campus police. He said he sent two men over there as per my request but when they showed up, no one was there but the librarian. And then, from out of nowhere, they both got shot, one in the shoulder, the other right through the heart. He's dead."

Nick and Greg were solemn. "Brass, I have to go," Greg said suddenly. "Sara said she wants me and Catherine."

"You and Catherine?" Brass said. "Why?"

"I don't know… Does anyone know why Sara left in the first place?" Greg asked, looking from Nick to Brass.

Nick nodded. "She got a call and said something about helping some kid before she ran out."

Brass sighed. "Daniel McCormick," he said. "She and I interviewed him and his uncle, who she figured beats his nephew. I was about to call social services on his ass when she told me the kid said no, and that she'd deal with it. I guess this is how she dealt with it."

"Jesus…" Greg muttered. "Is this kid dangerous?"

"To be honest, he didn't look it," Brass replied. "Small guy, short for his age, lanky… And he was pretty battered."

"I'm going to go find Catherine—"

"No," Brass said sternly. "I don't want you two walking into a trap too."

"You'll cover us," Greg said. "Stay outside while we go inside. Like a sting operation."

"Grissom's not gonna like this…" Brass muttered shaking his head. "And I got a crazy man in interrogation. I'll have Sofia play babysitter down here. I'm going with you."

"Me too," Nick said, squeezing Greg's shoulder.

"Nick, I need you here," Brass said. "Help Sofia out with our suspect. Grissom's going to want to come down, and I need someone holding down the fort. Warrick—" he said, as the man passed. "Get over here."

Slightly confused Warrick obeyed. "I was just going to see Grissom in interrogation. Got the DNA—"

"Good," Brass said. "Nick, go with him and tell Grissom what's going on. Greg, go find Catherine and meet me outside in five minutes. Got it?"

They all nodded and set off.

* * *

Sara hung up the phone and clutched at her side where Mickey had kneed her in the stomach when he had realized she and Greg were speaking in code. 

"I was serious when I said I'd kill the librarian," Mickey told her. "So don't even think about it."

Sara caught her breath as she leaned against the bookcase, deciding it was best to obey for now, at least until Greg and Catherine showed up, preferably with backup. Mickey went to check on the librarian. Danny sat down next to her. She wished he would go away. She wasn't interested in speaking to him anymore and any sympathy she previously housed for the boy had fled.

"I'm really sorry about all this, Sara," he said quietly. "I didn't want to hurt anyone. Honest." Sara didn't reply. Danny began to fidget. "If you just do everything he tells you to, then he promised me he won't hurt you." Sara still didn't speak. Danny sighed. "Look, Sara, I told you, I'm not as good a person as you are, I've never—"

"Being a good person isn't something bred into your genetics, Danny," Sara interrupted sharply. "It's not like saying 'I'm not as tall as you are,' or 'I don't have dark eyes like you do.' If you don't think you're a good person, and you want to do something about it, then you _can_. You didn't make this choice because you're not as good a person as me. You made this choice because you don't _want_ to be as good a person as me."

It was Danny's turn to be silent as he stared at his knees.

But Sara was furious, and now that she had opened her mouth, she couldn't stop herself from yelling at him. "I mean, my _God_, Danny, you seemed like such a _smart_ kid! Troubled, yeah, of course, and abused emotionally and physically, but I naively thought that all you needed was a little love and a friend _without_ any ulterior motives. I really _did_ want to help you, Danny, I would have fought tooth and nail for you, I would have _helped_ you to do the right thing and feel good about yourself again, and become a better person. I really _cared_ about you, Danny, whether you believe it or not. I know I only met you today, but you reminded me of…" She trailed off and looked away. "Just go," she whispered. "Just go to your friend and leave me alone."

Danny looked at her and took a deep breath before looking away again in shame. He rose to his feet and walked over to Mickey at the front desk. Sara couldn't hear what they were saying, but she saw Mickey put a hand on Danny's shoulder, concernedly. Danny said something and Mickey's face hardened. He pushed past Danny and made for Sara, who stiffened reflexively and got into a crouch position. Mickey pointed his gun at her and was about to speak, but before he could, Sara launched herself at him, knocking him to the floor and sending the gun skidding across the floor. They wrestled on the floor momentarily and Sara tried to overpower him but he was stronger than she had anticipated and she found that to be easier said than done.

"Stop it, both of you!" Danny yelled, but they both ignored him. Sara pinned Mickey to the ground and beat his head against the floor, trying to knock him unconscious, but he delivered a swift uppercut to her chin, making her bite her tongue hard enough to draw blood.

"Stop it or I'll _shoot_ you _both_!" Danny roared and the both stopped and looked up at Danny with wide eyes. He was carrying two guns, one Sara recognized as her own, and the other was the one she had knocked out off Mickey's hands. He was breathing hard, and both his hands were shaking. Mickey pushed Sara away and walked towards Danny.

"OK," he said calmly to Danny, holding out his hand. "Thanks, Danny. Now give me my gun."

Danny looked skeptical a moment. He glanced at Sara. Mickey didn't like that.

"Don't look at _her_, look at _me_!" he snapped. "I'm your friend here. I'm the one looking out for you. _She_ wants to put you in prison. Don't you even _think_ about it Danny."

He swallowed and closed his eyes before nodding and handing Mickey back his gun. Mickey grinned, then spun around face and kicked Sara hard in the face, pushing her down. Her hair fell over her face as she rested on her arms, trying to recover her breath.

"_You said you wouldn't hurt her_!" Danny hissed.

"Well _she_ said she wouldn't pull any tricks!" Mickey retorted. "I guess we both lied."

They both turned their eyes to Sara, who had flipped her hair back and was glaring up at them with a split lip, her eyes as fierce and full of loathing as Danny had ever seen them. He hadn't known that someone as sweet as her could also be so ruthless. It seemed the fight was out of her. Now, she was content to seethe in silence and just glower at her captors menacingly.

"This is a bad idea, Mickey," Danny said, trying to revive an old argument. "She was going to help us. We'll never get a deal from the cops now that we've _abducted_ one of them!"

"He's right," Sara growled, drawing both Danny and Mickey's attention. "You may have killed those first two cops, but you better believe once they find out they'll send half the LVPD after you. Mickey—"

"Don't you talk to me, bitch!" Mickey screamed frantically as he pointed his gun at her.

She hesitated before boldly continuing. "I could have _helped_ you. Now, you can rot in hell for all I care—"

She was cut off when Mickey seized her by her collar and shoved her up against a bookcase, the edges of the hardcover spines pressing uncomfortably into her back. He was unusually strong for a teenager and Sara struggled against him, but his fingers closed around her throat.

"_Mickey_!" Danny screamed hysterically. "Mickey, let her _go_!"

"You made a choice, Danny!" Mickey yelled at him. "And you chose me. No going back, not for anything!"

As she struggled for air, she felt something vibrating against her thigh. She tried to speak. "Phone…" she choked. "Phone… ringing…"

Mickey frowned then looked down and understood. His grip slackened and she fell to her knees, spluttering, gasping for air as she reached to answer her phone. She coughed before speaking to clear her throat as she rubbed her sore neck.

"Sidle."

"Sara? Are you OK, you don't sound good."

Mickey kneeled down next to her and leaned his ear near hers so he could listen to both sides of the conversation. Sara glared at her captor with endless malice. "Yeah, I'm… I'm fine. Where are you, Greg?"

"We're outside," Greg replied. "The door's locked."

Sara gave Mickey a pointed look. "Well then I'll go _unlock_ it," she hissed, more to Mickey than to Greg. Mickey rose to his feet and nodded, then gestured at the door with his head and kept his gun trained on Sara. She rounded the corner, her eyes still warily on the gun, and headed to the glass doors where she saw Greg and Catherine, both standing with their kits at the door trying to look inscrutable. Her eyes kept darting back to Mickey who was hiding amongst the books. She hoped Catherine and Greg were realizing what she was doing so they could anticipate Mickey's position. She swallowed as she reached the door and opened it, letting Catherine and Greg inside.

"Hey…" Greg said, his eyes filled with concern as he clutched Sara's hand and squeezed it. "So where's the… body?"

She looked over her shoulder at Danny, who had just stepped out from behind the front desk. He was aiming Sara's gun at the three of them, his hands quaking madly. Sara, Greg and Catherine didn't move as they watched Danny.

"You brought your guns, I hope?" Sara whispered out of the corner of her mouth.

"What do you take us for, idiots?" Greg mumbled as he watched Danny. "He doesn't look very scary."

"_He's_ not," Sara replied, and her eyes flew to the book cases where Mickey was now emerging from, aiming his gun at them as well.

"Catherine, Greg, how are you?" Mickey said, as congenially as if he held a tray of tea instead of a gun in his hand. "Good to see you both again."

"Again?" Catherine said, confused.

Mickey smirked. "How's Lindsey?"  
Catherine's face drained of color. "Who the hell are you?"

Mickey turned to Greg. "I heard about that inquest," he said. "Tough luck, man. The judicial system isn't very understanding of guys like us."

Greg narrowed his eyes. "'Guys like us?'" he repeated, sounding disgusted. Something tightened around Sara's hand and she looked down to realize Greg was still holding it, clinging to it for dear life. He interwove his fingers with hers and refused to let go. "What do you want with us?" Greg demanded. "Why did you call us down here?"

Mickey turned again to Catherine. "I'm almost offended you don't recognize my voice, Cat. Then again, it was more of a… husky whisper, wouldn't you say?"

Greg glanced at Catherine, who was thoroughly pale by now, her breathing steady as her chest rose and fell with suppressed rage. "Catherine…" Greg began.

"You are such a conniving little—"

"Ah, ah, ah, Catey, dear," Mickey said mockingly. "I did a little digging. A lot of digging, actually. But nothing could explain the way you froze in my arms…" He walked over to the captive librarian. He frowned. "Now, I looked for reported rapes… and yet there was nothing. So either, you didn't report it or…" He turned around. "I was turning you on."

"Stop playing with us," Sara snapped, furious at the way Mickey was speaking to her friends. "What do you _want_?"

Mickey grinned and pulled the captive librarian by the hair, tilting her head back. She shrieked through her gag as he held the gun against her temple. "I want you to _understand_," he growled.

"OK, take it easy…" Greg said holding up his hands.

"Danny," Mickey barked. "Take your girlfriend and get out of here."

Danny looked just as surprised as the rest of them. "What?" he breathed.

Mickey was staring hard at Catherine and Greg. "Unless you want her to _die_," Mickey repeated. "Get her _out_ of here!"

Danny began to approach Sara, but looked back at Mickey startled and lowered his gun. "I don't…"

His hesitation was all Greg needed. He grabbed his gun from his holster and hooked Danny round the neck, holding his gun to Danny's temple. Mickey pulled at the librarian's hair making her whimper.

"You have no idea who you're dealing with here, kid," Greg growled. "Let us go, and I won't kill him."

Mickey smiled. "So it's true what they said about you. You really are a killer. How attractive. Don't even think about it, Cathy," Mickey snapped as Catherine reached for her own gun. "Or Ms. Librarian here gets a bullet in her brain."

Catherine and Sara exchanged looks as Danny struggled against Greg's grip, his face pale, his eyes wide. "You don't think I'm serious?" Greg asked. "It won't be the first person I killed, you know."

"I know," Mickey said. "It'll be your third. And you'll probably get away with that one too."

"Mickey…" Danny said, his voice a whimper.

"You do care about him, don't you?" Greg asked.

Mickey's face was solemn. "I thought I did," he replied.

"You do…" Sara whispered, approaching Mickey slowly. He didn't tell her to stop. "Otherwise, you wouldn't have listened to him. You wouldn't have allowed him to protect me. You wouldn't have told him to leave."

"I _don't_," Mickey said fiercely, and the librarian shrieked as his nails dug into her scalp. And yet, Mickey's eyes never seemed to leave Danny's panic-stricken face.

"The greatest thing you can do for a loved one, Mickey…" Sara said quietly. "Is to let them be themselves, and not who you want them to be."

"Shut up," Mickey growled.

"You do love him…" Sara said, sounding as if she just realized it herself. "Don't you?"

"Shut up or I _will_ kill you!" Mickey yelled.

"No!" Greg screamed, drawing their attention. "You won't _touch_ her. Or that librarian. You're going to let us _go_ or I'll kill your friend here."

"You wouldn't do it," Mickey said. "Your sister was one thing, but that was years ago, and Demetrius James, well, that was a mistake, wasn't it? You couldn't use your gun back at the house and you can't use it here, can you? You're just a scared little boy."

"You think I'm scared?" Greg said, trying to laugh haughtily and failing miserably.

"Yes," Mickey said simply, before swiftly changing his aim and firing. There was a cry of pain and someone was yelling at the top of his lungs. Greg nearly lost grip on Danny as his heart almost stopped. "I do."

* * *

_**End Note:**_ What a cliffhanger to leave you folks on. Anyways, a preview for "**So Close To Home**." Remember, a video teaser for "**The Inbetweens**" will be in my profile shortly. 

Sara closed her eyes to keep the tears at bay as she bagged another torn piece of black cloth that had once been Greg's shirt. The stars blinked down at her in the clear night sky as she processed the scene where hours ago, Nick had discovered their pale, staggering friend. Brass stood silent vigil over the scene, his hand resting unconsciously on the butt of his gun as he held up his flashlight to help illuminate the scene. She crawled on her hands and knees, making sure she got every scrap of blood-stained fabric, and every piece of evidence. Her eyes strained in the dim light provided by the two flashlights, but she didn't care. She would search every grain of sand until she went blind.

"Are you sure you don't want to go to the hospital with the others?" Brass asked as he watched her diligently work but she simply shook her head.

"I need to be here," she replied, her eyes still scanning the dry earth. "I need to work the case. If I'm there, then I worry about him. I need to find out why he's in this state. I need to know what happened here."

Brass said no more and let her continue with her work. She looked at Greg's flashlight, which was still on as it lay forgotten in the dust. She photographed it before picking it up and turning it off. His kit had fallen a few feet away and looked relatively undisturbed. She found the knife that had been used to slit his throat. It was covered in dry blood. She wondered if all of it was Greg's.

And then she walked a little further and found his gun, the barrel of it bleeding crimson onto the dust. She frowned and crouched down near it, photographing it and then picking it up with two delicate fingers by the handle. "That's strange…" she whispered before bagging that as well. She recalled the gash in his throat, but his head had appeared otherwise unscathed. Nonetheless, the gun had definitely been a weapon of some kind, perhaps a club to bludgeon him in the ribs or stomach, she wasn't sure. She hadn't been able to take her eyes off of the wound in his throat.

She surveyed the scene once, twice, and three times over, but she had collected any and all signs of the 'scuffle,' as Greg had called it. She sighed, wishing there was something more, wishing the answer had been written in the sand so she could read it and be satisfied. "Nothing left but dust and darkness…" 


	13. Bluffing

_**Author's Note:**_ I'm baaaaaack! I told you guys I would be, and I always keep my promises. Worked on a few one-shots, plus "So Close To Home" and I actually have another one-shot (or two) in the works, one a comical (and far less smutty than "One Thing On My Mind") Sandle, and one angsty GSR. But I figured I'd post this first, as you guys have been waiting a good week or so now for it.

**Black Tulip** wins the contest of choosing a name for the last particular chapter. What did Black Tulip win? Well, er... Nothing. Except the honor of being mentioned in my awesome, totally-kickass, half-the-reasons-I-read-WitchGirl's-stories-are-for-her-author's-notes author's notes! Er... yeah, right, OK, that's enough rambling and self-indulgence for tonight, here's the long awaited Chapter Thirteen (Chapter Fourteen is in the works, and will also be up before the end of the month).

* * *

Chapter Thirteen: Bluffing

She was clutching at her shoulder as she slowly slid to the floor, a look of utter shock on her face, her breathing rapid and shallow.

"_What the hell did you do that for_?!" Danny screamed, struggling now against Greg's grip so he could launch himself at Mickey. But Greg held onto him firmly, though his eyes lingered on Sara whose eyes were wide as she stumbled backwards into a book case and slowly slid to the floor. Catherine made a move to go to her and as she did, Mickey vaulted the desk and grabbed her by the arm, pulling her into him. He spun around to Greg, who was visibly nervous as a bead of sweat ran down his temple. At the gunshot, the earpiece Greg had been wearing short-circuited and he was cut off from Brass, who had been whispering orders in his ear. He only hoped that Catherine could still hear him as she struggled against Mickey's grip.

Greg felt like the bullet had hit him instead as his heart plummeted into his stomach. His heart was beating rapidly and it echoed in his head. There was a fire burning in his veins as he tightened his grip around Danny, his fingers closing around his throat as Greg held the gun against the side of his neck, shoving it against him coldly. Infected with fury and fear, his finger twitched against the trigger, and in the shortest second, he would have applied just the right amount of pressure to retaliate against the sins committed against him and his family, were it not for the small, pained cry of a child, losing oxygen and faith, relaxing in Greg's grip, resigned to his fate.

Greg hesitated, his finger still tense against the trigger of his gun as he listened to the boy in his arms quietly sob. Greg had left nail marks in his neck, but the boy had stopped struggling, stopped fighting. "Just kill me…" he whispered so only Greg could hear. "Oh my God, what have I done…?"

And Greg was thinking nearly identical thoughts. _Oh God… what am I doing?_

Luckily, he was distracted by Catherine's aggravated growl as she fought against Mickey, who was successfully restraining her. "You're not going to scare me again, kid," Catherine hissed. "I know why you killed that family."

Mickey's grip on Catherine tightened and Greg saw him press the gun against her temple. "Shut up, bitch. This isn't a knife I've got here, this is a gun. Nothing slow about that death, do you hear me? I pull this trigger, it won't just nick you. You can end up like your friend over there."

"She was your _mother_," Catherine yelled, loud enough for Danny and Greg to hear. Danny stopped breathing. For a moment, Greg had forgotten that he had hesitated, and he wondered if he had pulled the trigger after all, if Danny was dead, and he was holding a corpse.

And then, the boy spoke, and Greg relaxed a little. "Your… your what?" he said.

"Yeah, and so what?" Mickey returned. "My family disowned me when they found out the truth about me. My step-father was ashamed of me when he _didn't_ know I was gay! I _expected_ him to flip out. He was always embarrassed by me, introducing me as his nephew to his coworkers, or 'Karen's kid' to family members. At church, he always made me sit on the end. He thought I was a bad influence on his kids, because I'd get into fights at school. But I was a better influence on them than _he_ was with his whole 'holier than thou' attitude! But my _mother_, who always used to preach about hating the sin and not the sinner, decided to take _his_ side in this one! She's known me longer than she knew him, you know. She supposedly _loved_ me. And look how that turned out."

"OK…" Danny whispered. "But why the kids, Mickey? Why your brother and sister?"

"Because they were growing up to be just like them," Mickey spat. "Bible-bashing freaks who preached God's love but never practiced it. Judgmental hypocrites who swallowed the spoon-fed lies of their parents. Erika was the hardest… She was the only one who cried when I left. She's the only one that wanted me to stay…" His grip on Catherine seemed to weaken as he recalled his little sister, but the moment she made a move for her gun, he grabbed her arm. With a sharp movement and a loud crack, Catherine cried out, her right arm bending at an odd angle as she fell to her knees, her face screwed up as she bore the pain. Mickey took her gun from her holster and unloaded it before tossing it over under the front desk by the librarian's feet. He grabbed Catherine by the hair and pulled her to her feet, resuming his previous position with his arm around her neck and his gun against her temple.

He glared at Greg. "So. Greg. It comes down to this. Your friend, bleeding on the floor. The other, about to get her brains plastered all over the UNLV library. Out of the two of us, I'm the only one who really has the guts. Danny's innocent in all this. You wouldn't kill an innocent kid."

Greg tightened his grip around Danny's neck and shoved the gun into his temple, the old, blind fury returning as he stared at Catherine's broken arm. "You shot Sara," he said in a low, cold voice that Catherine had never heard before. "You have no idea what I'm capable of."

Mickey almost laughed. "Did you really kill your sister, Greg?" he asked. "I mean, _really_ really? I always assumed you did, but you know what they say about assuming."

"It makes an ass out of you and me," Greg said coolly.

"That's not an answer," Mickey pointed out.

And Greg didn't answer for a long time as he glared at Mickey. Finally, the word came out. "Yes," he said. "I did."

Mickey seemed to be the only one in the room that wasn't surprised to hear this. Catherine stopped struggling. Danny tensed in his arms. Even Sara, who was in some sort of dazed stupor as she sat against the bookcase looked at him curiously as sweat poured down her face and blood oozed from the wound in her shoulder.

"So you see?" Mickey said. "We really _do_ have a lot in common."

"Right now, there are probably a dozen squad cars and twice as many cops out there ready to take you down," Greg growled, his eyes darting every so often to Sara by the bookcase. "It's over, Mickey. You've lost."

"Ah, no," Mickey said, shaking his head. "You see, that earpiece, that Cathy here is wearing, and I'm sure you've got one too, tells me that they're probably talking to you right at this very moment. You're probably wearing a mic, too, so they're hearing everything we say, aren't they? Well then, they know that if anyone comes through that door, not only will Cat here not have a chance to say bye-bye to little Lindsey, but I'll finish off Sara over there too. And they won't risk that."

Greg tried to remain inscrutable, but he knew that Mickey was right. Grissom had made Brass promise that they wouldn't make a move until everyone was safe. It was the only way he had consented to letting Catherine and Greg go in there in the first place.

"So what are you going to do, Mickey?" Greg asked daringly. "Catherine is the only bargaining chip you have. You gonna try and sneak out of here? Use her as a shield?"

"_Nobody_ uses _me_," Catherine snarled, and her struggle against Mickey's grip began anew.

"Ease up there, kitten, no one's gonna do that," Mickey said. "The only way I use her as a shield is if she's a dead body."

"You kill her, and I swear to God I'll kill him," Greg said, more serious than ever. He really missed having Brass in his ear. He felt truly alone now.

"Go ahead," Mickey replied, coldly. "You have one kid that betrayed me. Meanwhile, I can kill your girls here, not to mention the librarian. Who has more to lose here, Greg?"

"Mickey…" Danny said quietly, surprised at his words.

The untrained observer wouldn't have seen it, but Greg was a master at hiding shame and he recognized the glimmer of it in Mickey's eyes at Danny's heartbroken whimper.

"Just kill him," Mickey hissed. "Go ahead, do it."

"I… I will," Greg said.

"Then _do_ it already!" Mickey yelled at the top of his lungs, making Catherine wince. "You've been threatening to since before I shot your girl over there! And even when I did you _still_ didn't do it!"

Greg fought hard to remind himself that he wasn't alone, that it wasn't just him and Mickey, and that these criminals were outnumbered. "And what happens when I do?" he asked, daringly. "You gonna kill Catherine, Sara, the librarian, me? You gonna try and run, Mickey? Because they'll catch you. You abducted a member of the LVPD, and then you _shot_ her. You're threatening the lives of two other CSIs. You're holding a civilian hostage. You think they're going to take _kindly_ to that when they catch you?"

"And yet, I still hold the lives of you and your friends in my hands," Mickey replied, tauntingly. "So regardless of what happens to me, you'll all still be dead, won't you?"

"So will Danny," Greg said.

"You talk the talk," Mickey said. "But if you haven't done it yet, then you won't do it at all."

"I killed my own sister," Greg said.

"I think you're bluffing," Mickey replied.

"You want to know how I did it?" Greg screamed. "Do you?!"

"No," Mickey said simply. "I want to know _why_."

Greg's eyes narrowed. "You killed a _nine-year-old girl_ because of what you were afraid she would _become_!"

The voice was so small and strained, and yet it echoed in the foyer of the library. "Ch-children… don't always become their parents." This was all she could get out before Sara closed her eyes and tensed, letting out a small gasp of pain.

"Sara…" Danny whispered, his voice oozing with regret.

"I didn't want to kill Erika," Mickey said, quietly, looking at Sara. "But she left me no choice. I couldn't have her telling the cops who killed her two-faced folks and her bigoted brother." He turned his attention back to Greg. "Did you want to kill your sister? What was her name again? Lucy?"

"Let Catherine go," Greg said through gritted teeth. "And I'll tell you."

"Why did you do it, Greg?" Mickey asked. "Why did you kill your own baby sister?"

Greg hesitated. And then, he caught Catherine's eyes. She was giving him a hard gaze, trying to tell him something with her eyes, but he frowned in confusion. Her eyes flickered downwards, to the floor. He didn't know what she was gesturing at.

"Answer me, or she dies," Mickey said. "I kill her, I still have the librarian and Sara, don't I?"

"Greg," Catherine said aloud. "Remember what I said earlier? What would I have done, if I was you?"

"Shut up!" Mickey yelled. "This is a conversation between me and Greg!"

Greg wracked his brain. What was she talking about? What… And then, he remembered it suddenly.

_"And then he grabbed the knife and held it to my throat and Mr. Drama Queen over here decided his gun was more of a decorative piece than a working tool." _

_"I bet if you were in my shoes..." _

_"I would have shot him. In the foot, probably. It's distracting enough. And poetic."_

And then, Greg realized what Catherine was gesturing at. Mickey's leg was wrapped around Catherine's in an attempt to sabotage any attempt on her part to move. It was a tough shot, but not impossible. If he just aimed for Mickey's foot… But an inch off, and he could hit Catherine. And if Mickey saw that, he wouldn't take any chances. He would kill her, Greg was sure of it. Greg wasn't used to guns. While he wasn't a terrible shot, he was by no means a sharp shooter. Did he risk it? Did he trust himself to make this shot?

"We're _waiting_ for your answer!" Mickey roared. He cocked his gun. Greg looked at Catherine, who was nodding, as though she knew exactly what he was thinking.

'_I trust you_,' Catherine mouthed, and he nodded, his mouth partially open.

He sniffed and steeled his courage as he stole a glance at Sara by the book shelf. She was unconscious now, but her chest rose and fell. He looked at Mickey. "You want to know why I killed my sister?" he asked.

"I think that's what I said, yeah," Mickey replied sarcastically.

A twisted smile formed on Greg's face and he let out a cold laugh. "There wasn't a reason."

Mickey's lips curled into a smile. But it didn't last long. Greg was quick on the draw as he changed targets more swiftly than even Mickey had earlier and squinted, taking aim as fast and as accurately as he possibly could before pulling the trigger.

The shot echoed out in the room and whoever was hit screamed loudly, in a high pitched voice. For a moment, Greg panicked, thinking he had missed and hit Catherine, but then he saw Mickey push her to the floor as he stumbled backwards, his foot bleeding madly.

"Now would be great, Jim," he heard Catherine say as she tossed back her hair and looked up at Greg. She grinned. "Nice job, Greg."

Greg was breathing hard as he nodded. Danny was struggling furiously against his grip. His eyes fell on Mickey, who had fallen down and was cradling his bleeding foot, a look of pure hate on his face. He took aim at Catherine, who was on her knees, looking at her broken arm, her back to him.

Without a word or another thought or hesitation, Greg raised his gun and fired again, twice, hitting Mickey in the chest. But a third gunshot echoed out, and Greg heard it ricochet. Catherine spun around quicker than lightening and Greg knew the shot had come from Mickey's gun, and he had hit him just in time to throw off his aim. Mickey had fallen backwards, his gun still clutched in his hand as his eyes glazed over. Catherine turned to look at Mickey's body, her mouth agape, and then looked at Greg, not knowing what to say.

The doors to the library swung open, and in surged a team of cops and EMTs. Danny succeeded in breaking out of his grip, and Greg made a move to go after him when he saw that the kid wasn't running for the exit, or to Mickey for that matter, but to Sara. Greg dropped his gun with a clatter, then looked up at Catherine whose eyes were still on him as people swirled around them. Grissom came up to Greg and was saying something to him, but Greg didn't really hear it. In a daze, he turned around and walked through the crowd of people out the door and into the night where he could finally breathe again.


	14. Not Alone

_**Author's Note:**_ Gotta love some Greg/Cath bonding, and a curious little cliffhanger. For those of you who thought I was ending this, wow. There were a few of you who thought it was over. But there is a whole other story line that's been left unresolved! And what of Sara? What of Nick and Catherine? And where's Danny gonna go? Will I answer these questions? Of course I will, because I HATE leaving stories hanging. So if you still have questions about a story I've written, odds are it's not finished yet. This isn't _Lost_ or anything like that. ;o)

Oh, and by the way, I'm not particularly religious (at least not towards any organized religion) but I respect people who are (Christian, Muslim, Jewish...) The religious— what's the word— parts of this chapter aren't meant to endorse Christianity or whatever, but as Christmas is a theme in this story, as are some of the things it stands for (forgiveness, family, loyalty), I figured it was appropriate. It's meant to show the side of religion that I like. As for the side of religion that doesn't appeal to me, well... go read Salam for further commentary on that. No offense was intended with this author's note. All creeds, believers and secularists, are all OK in my books.

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Chapter Fourteen: Not Alone

Catherine watched Greg's retreating back even as Grissom called after him. And then, Brass came up to her and was speaking to her, and she became distracted.

"Catherine, are you OK?" Brass was saying.

She nodded, then looked down at her arm which was throbbing wildly. "I think he might have fractured my arm, though."

Brass touched it gingerly, and she winced. "Well, we can get that taken care of." He looked over his shoulder. "Can we get a medic over here?"

"I'm fine for now, really," Catherine said. "Go make sure Sara's OK first—"

She was cut off by Danny's screams. "No! _No_!"

"What's wrong with this kid?!" an officer was screaming. Catherine pushed past Brass to Sara and the screaming teen, who was being restrained by two officers but fighting them madly. She looked fleetingly at Danny, who stopped struggling when she showed up, then kneeled down near Sara's head as the paramedics worked to stabilize her and stop the bleeding. She softly pushed the hair back from her eyes, her heart lurching as she hoped her friend wasn't dying. She looked up at the paramedics who were working on her.

"She'll be OK, won't she?" she asked, her eyes desperate.

One of the medics looked up at her, his eyes seeming to search for the answer. "We think so," he said, but she heard the doubt in his tone. "She hasn't lost a lot of blood yet, and the bullet doesn't seem to have hit any major arteries, thank God."

Catherine sighed with relief and nodded, then looked up at Danny who was struggling against the cops' grip again as the tears rolled down his cheeks. "Let me _go_!" he was saying. "I want to _see_ her, I want to tell her that I'm _sorry_, I'm _sorry_!"

For some reason that not even Catherine could determine, she stood up and looked at the cops. "Let him go," she said.

Danny stopped struggling and the cops looked at her as though she'd just told them that Santa Claus did exist and she was one of his elves. "What, ma'am?" one of them said.

"I said let him go," Catherine repeated. "He's not going to go anywhere." She looked at the boy. "Are you, Danny?"

Slowly, and with wide eyes, he shook his head.

"You promise?"

He nodded.

She smiled and looked back at the two cops. "There, you see? He gives you his word. That's enough for me."

"But ma'am—"

"Oh for God's sake, it's Christmas and he's just sixteen years old," Catherine said. "Have a little faith in him."

Slowly, they released him and he fell to his knees next to Sara, taking her hand in his. "God…" he whispered, the tears flowing freely now. "Please hear me. Please let her be OK. Please don't let her die. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'll fix it, I'm so _sorry_ that I ruined everything, that I helped him kill those people, those kids and their parents, and Sara… Please, Jesus… help me… let her be OK…"

It surprised Catherine slightly that he wasn't asking for Sara's forgiveness, but for forgiveness from a higher power. She almost smiled.

"OK, son," one of the paramedics said to him. "You're going to have to step back, we're gonna transport her to the ambulance now."

Slowly, he nodded and moved backwards, his eyes on Sara as the medics moved her through the crowd. True to his word, Danny didn't make an escape attempt or move to go after Sara. He simply stood there and turned to the police. He nodded and held out his hands. "OK," he said. "I'm ready to go now."

Looking slightly surprised, the two officers nodded and escorted him from the premises. With Danny gone, and Sara being taken care of, Catherine looked around the rest of the room. A few officers were untying the librarian, who was rubbing her wrists and seemed to be speaking to the cops, her lips moving at light-speed as an EMT checked her out. Another gaggle of paramedics were stepping away from Mickey's cold body. Brass and Grissom stood looking down at the boy, speaking in hushed tones to one another. She approached them and stood next to Grissom, also looking down at the boy who stared up at them with glass eyes, blood pouring from his mouth, the two wounds in his chest, and the wound in his foot.

"He's dead then," she stated more than asked, making Grissom jump beside her.

"Uh… yeah," Grissom said, recovering. "I didn't hear you come up there. The first bullet pierced his lung; the second one hit his heart. He never had a chance, really." He turned to Catherine. "Did Greg shoot him?"

She nodded. "Yeah," she said. "All three times. Grissom, I don't think he wanted to kill him. I mean, he went for the foot first. But then…"

"Of course he didn't mean to," Grissom said. "It just happens sometimes. Still, there'll probably be an inquiry. He may be a murderer, but all the press will see is a dead eighteen-year-old boy."

Catherine nodded. "Right, of course. Dammit, Grissom, he's already done that dance once."

"I know," Grissom said. "Believe me, I wish…"

He didn't need to finish the sentence. Catherine wished the same thing. "Grissom… He saved my life."

"He saved all of your lives if I understand correctly," Grissom responded.

"No…" Catherine said. "You don't understand… Mickey aimed at me. _Shot_ at _me_ and he…" She trailed off

"Good," Grissom said simply.

She gave him an incredulous look. "_Good_?!"

"Yes," he replied, turning to look at her. "You can tell them that he had to do it. To save your life. Look, it probably won't amount to anything. It probably won't even see a judge, not with all of your accounts. An inquiry doesn't mean an inquest."

"Still, it'll put Greg through more hell he doesn't deserve," Catherine said quietly as she rubbed her sore arm.

"Did you get that checked out?" Brass asked, looking at her past Grissom.

She took a deep breath and sighed. "Not yet. I'll stop by the hospital on the way home."

"And how will you get there, Catherine? You can't drive in that condition," Brass pointed out.

Catherine looked at the door to the library. "I think I can find someone to drive me…" she said absently and started heading towards the door.

Once outside, she looked around. There were ambulances and cop cars and crime scene tape and officers and news cameras and reporters… She couldn't see him at first, and wouldn't have if she hadn't looked directly to her left, where he was leaning against the side of the library, looking up at the sky with his hands stuck in his pockets. She smiled sadly to herself and walked over to him as the wind whipped at her bare arms, but she ignored the cold.

"Hey," she said, simply.

He didn't seem to hear her at first as he continued to stare up at the sky, taking deep, even breaths. And then, he closed his eyes and sighed. "Hey."

She put her good hand on his shoulder. "You did a good job in there, Greg."

"No, I didn't," he replied, shaking his head as he stared out straight in front of him. "Doing a good job would have been not being so brash, not being so angry or impulsive…" He turned to Catherine. "I was really ready to kill that kid, Catherine. After he shot Sara, I…" He closed his eyes and looked away from Catherine briskly. He rubbed his arms to warm them and shivered in the frigid night air.

"I know you, Greg," Catherine said. "You wouldn't have shot anyone if you could help it. Remember? I once criticized you for that, earlier tonight. I called it a weakness. It's not."

He was so cold, even his breaths were shaking. Or maybe, that wasn't the cold. "If that's the case, then why is there a dead teenage boy in there, Catherine?"

"Because you _couldn't_ help it," she replied. "Greg— You saved my life. He was going to _kill_ me."

"Was he?" Greg returned. "I mean… He didn't kill Sara. At least, not instantly… Oh God, Sara…" His hands came up to cup his mouth. He breathed into them to warm them before putting his palms together in front of his face. "He could have just wounded you. You could have survived it."

"Well, frankly, I'm _glad_ that you saved me from a bullet wound, fatal or not," Catherine said, rubbing his arm in a vain effort to bring some warmth and reassurance to him. "I owe you, Greg. Big time."

"You didn't deny that he's dead," Greg observed, staring up at the sky. "I assumed, and when I said it, you didn't say that he was alive. I really killed him, didn't I?"

"Your first bullet hit his lung…" Catherine said quietly. "He would have died more slowly if you hadn't fired the second shot. In a way… it was quicker this way."

Greg buried his face in his hands. "I don't want to do this again, Catherine…" he whispered. "I don't want to feel like I'm the criminal. Because a part of me will always believe that I _am_."

"Greg, you weren't alone this time," Catherine said. "I was there, too. I'm still here. And I'll stand right beside you, I'll yell out to everyone that you're a hero, you saved my life, and Sara's, and you did everything you could. Brass and Grissom were listening, hell, that librarian will testify, I'm sure!" She shook Greg's shoulder, making him look up at her with tired eyes. She smiled, trying to instill some courage in him. "I won't leave you alone in this, Greg."

"I didn't kill my sister," he said suddenly, as if it was important to her that she understood. "Please, I just… I didn't know what to say. I didn't know what he wanted to hear. I was just so angry when he shot Sara, and the way he treated you… The way he treated you… My God, I'm thirty-one years old and I've killed two people. I almost killed a third. I almost killed that kid."

Catherine looked down. "When I was fifteen…" she said slowly. "My mother's boyfriend snuck into my bedroom uninvited. After he was done, he slipped out of my bed and went down the hall to my mother's room and fell asleep next to her. I couldn't sleep all night. So at around four AM, I went down to the kitchen and found a knife."

Greg looked, up, his eyes startled and concerned, as though he hadn't expected this at all. But it was Catherine's turn to avoid his eyes as it suddenly became much colder in the air. She shivered, and though she knew he was cold too, she saw Greg take off his thin jacket and drape it around her shoulders.

"It isn't much…" he began, but she smiled up at him as she pulled it tightly around her with one hand.

"It's enough," she replied.

"You don't have to tell me what happened," Greg said, sounding honest. "I don't have to know. I know we're not that close…"

"No," she said. "You do have to know."

"Catherine, I understand about memories that are too much—"

"Greg, would you just shut up and let me finish?" she asked with a light laugh. He even smiled himself, a small blush creeping up in his cheeks as he looked away from her and rubbed his arms to warm them. She felt a little guilty for taking his jacket from him, but she knew if she offered to give it back, he wouldn't take it. She licked her lips and continued. "It was a carving knife my mom sometimes used when she attempted to cook. Anyways, since she never used it, it was still as sharp as it was when we bought it. I thought it was perfect. I climbed the stairs and I walked down the hall and I opened the door to my mother's room and I saw him lying there, his mouth open as he snored, the covers kicked off. And I went over to him, and I held the knife there right above him, and my hands were shaking… And I swear, I was ready to plunge it right into his chest. And then, my eyes strayed to my mother, who was lying next to him, sleeping so peacefully with a smile on her face. On the bedside table was a picture of us together. And I mean, just _us_. And it was like I had suddenly come to my senses. I couldn't kill this man. Regardless of what he had done to me, I couldn't do that to him, least of all while my mother was sleeping so quietly next to him. So I dropped the knife and ran out of the room, crying. But nobody woke up. Nobody followed me. And I just cried myself to sleep."

Greg was quiet a moment. "This will sound… really, _really_ lame, but… I know how you feel. I was so close to pulling that trigger, Cath, I swear to God, and then he whimpered, like a little kid, and I heard my sister in his voice and realized I was no better than the guy who took her from me."

Catherine smiled at him. "But you are better, Greg," she said quietly, "because in the end, you _didn't_ do it. And that's what really matters."

"Excuse me, are you Catherine Willows?"

Both Greg and Catherine jumped at the voice and they turned to see a medic with inquiring eyes. Catherine frowned at him. "That depends," she replied.

"Captain Brass told me you might have a broken arm," the paramedic explained.

"It's not broken," Catherine said quickly. "I just… can't… move it."

The paramedic smiled. "We may need some x-rays. If it is broken, we're going to have to set it. Here, follow me…"

With a reluctant sigh, she gave Greg one last look. "I'll get this taken care of," she said. "And then, I'm taking you out for a drink."

Greg smiled noncommittally as the paramedic led her away and let out a long sigh. He watched Catherine for a long time as the paramedic led her towards the ambulance. He rubbed his now bare arms, as Catherine had taken his jacket with him. He bit his lip, then jogged over after Catherine as the paramedic helped her into the ambulance.

"Could I ride with you guys?" he asked. He looked at Catherine. "I want to see Sara."

The paramedic hesitated. "Technically, we can't…"

And then Greg's phone began to ring. He and Catherine exchanged looks before he reached for the phone and looked at the caller ID.

"It's Nick…" he said, sounding surprised.

"Nick?" Catherine said. "Where's he at?"

Greg remembered Brass mentioning something about babysitting. He answered the phone. "Hey, what's up?"

"Greg? Are you all done helping out Sara down there?"

"Yeah, Nick. But I was just about to—"

"Is everyone OK?" Nick interrupted.

"Well, sort of," Greg said. "Sara was—"

"Don't think I don't care, because I do," Nick cut him off abruptly. "But no one's dead."

"Er… no…" Greg said, confused at Nick's urgency.

"Well I have a feeling that might change," Nick said, and for the first time, Greg heard the slight tremble in his voice.

"Nick, is everything OK?"

Nick laughed, nervously. "No, they're far from OK, Greg. I need you to get here _now_. Bring Brass."

"Nick, what's going on?" Greg asked, suddenly very worried.

"Just _hurry_," Nick said. "Or you might not have a station to come back to."

And with that, he hung up the phone. Greg looked at Catherine, who was watching him with wide eyes. "I gotta go," he said suddenly. "Are Brass and Grissom still inside?"

Catherine nodded slowly and leapt out of the ambulance, much to the protestations of the paramedic. "I'm coming with you."

"Your arm is fricking broken," Greg said, shaking his head. "The only place you're going is to the orthopedist."

"We don't even know if it's broken," Catherine said. "I feel great."

"Don't make me pull on your arm to prove my point, Cath, because I will."

She sighed. "Do it and I'm still coming, I don't care. If Nicky's in trouble, I want to know what's going on."

Greg sighed, knowing that arguing with Catherine was as futile as trying to tame a feral cat. "Fine, whatever. Let's get Brass and Grissom."


	15. Choices

_**Author's Note:**_ Hi. Back again. So you'll have noticed by now I'm not updating at my usual speeds. It's slow-going for this story, but the good news is that it's still going, and I THINK I'm near finished. My guesstimate (though nothing has been written yet) is two more chapters after this. Maybe. Hopefully. But you'll notice that this is a VERY long chapter for you today. As I told Kegel, a very Nick-centered chapter. I will be spending tomorrow at my favorite cafe, which means I will probably get a lot of writing done, hopefully for Silent Night. I promise I won't leave you hanging with this BITCH of a cliffhanger. Yeah, there, I warned you. It's a real bitch.

* * *

Chapter Fifteen: Choices

Nick folded his arms as he and Warrick watched Sofia with the suspect.

"What do you make of this guy, 'Rick?" Nick asked skeptically. "What do you think he wants?"

"Just another sociopath keen on making himself out to be more important than he really is," Warrick replied with a sigh. "I think we should just book him and get it over with."

"Do you think he's bluffing?" Nick asked. "About his last murder?"

"I think," Warrick began thoughtfully, "that he heard we were hauling him in so made up this fairytale to keep us on our toes. Serial killers lie all the time about the number of people they've murdered. Charles Manson claimed to have killed a dozen more people than he probably did."

Nick wasn't as sure as Warrick as he listened to Sofia talk to the man.

"I want to see Greg," the doctor said calmly. "And last I checked, he didn't get a sex change so you can't be the person I'm looking for."

Sofia forced a laugh. "Oh, you're funny," she said. "Greg's out on a case right now. In the meantime, you have me to entertain you. Do you want to tell me about this big surprise you're bragging about?"

Dr. Norris narrowed his eyes at Sofia. "I'm not saying anything until I speak to Greg. And I'm getting very impatient. You won't like me when I'm impatient."

"I'm sorry, Bruce Banner, but you're going to have to wait just a little bit longer. We have other cases that need attention other than you."

Nick felt like making him feel unimportant was not the way to play this, but he let Sofia do her thing. She knew more about handling sociopaths than he did, after all.

But he just leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, watching Sofia with intrigue. "I don't scare you, do I?" he asked her.

"I've dealt with plenty of people like you in the past," Sofia replied calmly. "You're not as unique as you may think, Dr. Norris."

"Why do you think I want to speak to Greg so bad?" Dr. Norris asked. "Hasn't it crossed your tiny, inferior brain yet that maybe I want to hurt him? Or maybe I already have hurt him? Do you know what he did to his sister, Detective Curtis? Did he ever tell you?"

Sofia kept a straight face. "Greg Sanders is an only child."

Dr. Norris tossed his head back and let out a barking laugh. "Oh dear, is _that_ what he's telling people? What a clever boy. I'll bet he lies as well as I do."

"OK, this is enough," Nick said, unable to contain himself as he burst into the interrogation room. Sofia jumped to her feet.

"Nick, get out of here," she said sternly, but he ignored her and turned Dr. Norris around to face him.

"Sofia, I'd like to speak with this man alone for a moment," Nick said, eying the doctor coolly.

"Nick…" she began.

"Please," Nick added, glancing at Sofia with cold eyes. With a sigh, she nodded and left the room. But he had no doubt she was standing with Warrick behind the glass, listening.

"Why _do _you want to talk to him so badly?" Nick asked. "Do you just want to drudge up old memories? Do you want to torture him some more? What's your game, Norris? What are you trying to prove?"

"And you are…?" the doctor asked casually, as if Nick had just bumped into him in a hallway.

"My name is Nick Stokes," Nick replied, seething.

"You're a friend of Greg's, I can assume?" the doctor deduced.

"He's a good person," Nick said through gritted teeth. "And you get a kick out of hurting good people, don't you? Killing families on Christmas, the kids first so the parents have to watch. And now you want Greg. Whatever you want to say to him, you can say to me. He told me everything about what happened Christmas 1985. I know _everything_."

"You know everything," the doctor said with an amused smile. "And yet you don't know who I am."

"You're Dr. Rupert Norris, M.D.," Nick stated frankly.

"That is my identity," Dr. Norris said. "But what of my relationship with young Gregory?" Nick said nothing, and so Dr. Norris continued. "They say that serial killers begin with small crimes. Arson. Assault. Petty theft. Did I ever tell you that Lucy Sanders was the first person I ever killed?"

Nick's hands subconsciously clenched into his fists as his palms grew sweaty. "You attacked Greg and his family," he stated needlessly. That fact was quite clear to both of them by now.

"A first kill can often times be very important to a serial killer," Dr. Norris continued, as if he was describing the general behavior of any average psychopath. "Particularly if he is used to taking trophies, or leaving a signature, and neither was done at the first kill. His mind tends to dwell on it, as if he had left something… unfinished."

Nick began to grind his teeth. "You're not talking to Greg. I'm not going to let you dig up those memories. It was hard enough when he had to tell me about it."

"I was a student," Dr. Norris went on, "over at Cal State LA. I was finishing up my medical degree. My scholarship money had run out. My father was dead, and my mother was broke, so I always had to find ways to support myself. I wasn't going to give up my future because of a little detail like cash. So I went on a fundraising spree. First, I took TV sets and raided houses when people were gone. I stole a Ford Thunderbird, got a nice price off of that. But I needed more. It was Christmas Eve, and I was still a couple hundred dollars short of paying tuition for my last semester. And then, I saw this house. Adorably decorated with lights and a little Santa Claus on the roof with his reindeer. Inside, a family, singing and laughing as they had dinner. So warm. So happy. And for some reason, it got under my skin. People weren't meant to be that happy."

"That's it," Nick said, shaking his head. "I'm bringing Sofia in here to bust your ass, I'm not wasting any more time on your bullshit." Nick turned around and began to head out the door when Dr. Norris jumped to his feet.

"I wouldn't leave this room if I was you, Mr. Stokes," he said coldly.

Nick, his back to the doctor, simply rolled his eyes, but stopped nonetheless. The door to interrogation opened and Warrick was standing there, about to enter.

"No one come any closer," Dr. Norris ordered and Warrick stopped.

Nick turned around and gave Dr. Norris an irritated look. "What makes you think you can tell us what to do?" Nick asked.

Dr. Norris simply laughed, arrogantly. "You and Greg are close?"

"Screw you," Nick retorted.

"That's a yes," Dr. Norris said with a snort. "How close?"

"Close enough," Nick returned.

"So he would want to come…" Dr. Norris said slowly, "… to help you out… wouldn't he?"

For the first time, and he didn't know why, but a chill went down Nick's spine, making goose bumps rise on his skin. He turned to look at Warrick, still poised in the doorway looking as nervous as Nick felt. He looked back at Dr. Norris and said, bravely, "You're not calling the shots here, Dr. Norris."

A smile slowly deformed his smug features. His hands flew to the buttons on his shirt before pulling them open to reveal explosives strapped to his chest.

"Oh," he said casually. "I really think I am."

Nick felt as if a bucket of icy water had just been poured over his head. "Warrick…" he said slowly, not moving a muscle. "Get out of the room."

"Not a chance," Warrick shot back.

"I'd listen to him if I was you," Dr. Norris said to Warrick.

"Nick, I'm not leaving you."

"Warrick, get out of damn room," Nick said, losing his temper as he tossed Warrick a sharp look over his shoulder. He felt a bead of sweat slowly slide down the side of his face, despite the fact that he was freezing cold. "Get Sofia out and evacuate the building. You know what to do after that, I'm sure."

They locked gazes. Warrick hesitated before nodding and slowly and stepping out of the room before closing the door. Nick turned back to look at Dr. Norris. "OK," he said, as calmly as he could manage. "What do you want me to do?"

"Have you not been _listening_, Mr. Stokes?" Dr. Norris asked, laughing. "I _want_ you to get Greg Sanders in here."

Nick swallowed to open up his constricting throat and licked his chapped lips. "I told you, Greg's not here right now. If you could just wait—"

"I assume you have a cell phone on you," Dr. Norris said. "Take it out and call him."

Nick hesitated. He knew Greg and Catherine were in a difficult situation of their own. If he called them at the wrong moment… "I can't."

"Nick, Nick, Nick…" Dr. Norris said, shaking his head in disapproval. "I can… call you Nick, can't I?"

"Mr. Stokes is fine," Nick replied.

Dr. Norris laughed. "Nick…" he said, as though to spite the CSI. "That's short for Nicholas? Nicholas Stokes. A diluted Texan accent. You grew up in Texas, but haven't been there for a while, have you?" He looked Nick up and down. "You're overbearing, and obviously protective. You have younger siblings, probably plenty. You look out for them. You consider yourself wiser than them."

Nick had to crack a smile. "I'm the youngest," he said. "Hate to burst your psychological profiling bubble."

"Ah…" said Dr. Norris, sounding intrigued. "Then that makes your protectiveness _far_ more interesting. You seem to look out for Greg… by your looks, I would assume he's a few years younger than you, so you've adopted him as the little brother you never had. You feel a duty to him… You weren't treated well as a child, you felt your older siblings let you down, and you don't want to let Greg down… Brothers, I would assume, who teased you, or beat you up from time to time or…" He studied Nick's face. "Or something much darker than that. What happened to you in your childhood that turned you into such an empathizing protector, Mr. Stokes? Nicholas?"

The roof of Nick's mouth went dry as he stood there, watching the man with a bomb strapped to his chest, stalling for time. "Nothing happened to me as a kid."

"People have strange little quirks when they lie," Dr. Norris said. "You smack your lips right before you speak."

Nick pursed his lips and was about to reply when he realized he had just smacked his lips again. He shook it off. "Look, Dr. Norris, you can sit here and try and mess with my head all you want. I could talk to you all day."

"I'm tired of waiting, Nicholas," Dr. Norris said with a fatigued sigh. "All I wanted was to speak to Greg. But that doesn't look like it's possible. So maybe I should just skip to the finale." His hand reached into his pocket and pulled out the trigger.

"No!" Nick said hastily, reaching for his phone. "I'll… I'll call him." His heart lurched. He hoped he wasn't putting his friends' lives in further jeopardy. He hoped they had finished up. He hoped Sara was saved and Greg and Catherine were fine and everyone just lived happily ever after. He looked at his phone. He tried to remember Greg's number on speed dial but it didn't come to mind. Number one was Dad, two was Mom, three was Grissom…

Grissom.

Grissom would know what to do. Nick was just about to dial three when Dr. Norris spoke up. "Call Greg and only Greg," Dr. Norris said. "And if I were you, I wouldn't take any chances. I have an exceptional sense of hearing, and I know the boy's voice."

Nick took deep breaths until he nodded and went to his phonebook, finding Greg's number manually. He hit the talk button and held the phone to his ear. It rang a few times before someone answered.

"Hey, what's up?"

"Greg? Are you all done helping out Sara down there?"

"Yeah, Nick. But I was just about to—"

"Is everyone OK?" Nick interrupted hastily. His eyes were locked with Dr. Norris's.

"Well, sort of," Greg said. "Sara was—"

"Don't think I don't care, because I do," Nick cut him off abruptly. He knew Greg was going to tell him that Sara had sustained some sort of injury, which struck a cord in him, but all he wanted to know is if she was still alive. For now. "But no one's dead."

"Er… no…"

Nick took a deep breath. "Well I have a feeling that might change."

Greg sounded confused. "Nick, is everything OK?"

Nick laughed, nervously as Dr. Norris raised the trigger in his hand. "No, they're far from OK, Greg. I need you to get here _now_. Bring Brass."

"Nick, what's going on?" Greg was sounding very worried by now.

"Just _hurry_," Nick said. "Or you might not have a station to come back to."

And with that, he hung up.

"There," he said. "I called him. He's on his way. Are you satisfied?"

Dr. Norris took a seat. "Very," he said. "In the meantime, let's talk about you."

"Let's not," Nick replied, annoyed.

"Well, I can't very well let you leave this room, can I?" Dr. Norris asked. "You're my only hostage. So please, indulge me. We need to pass the time somehow. Why don't you tell me what happened to you when you were a child?"

"Why don't _you_ tell me a little bit more about _your_self," Nick returned. "Why did you become a psychiatrist?"

"Perhaps it was to better understand myself," Dr. Norris postulated. "Or perhaps I just enjoyed manipulating people and psychiatry is a wonderful tool to use. Either way, after you finish medical school, before you can become an official psychiatrist you have to, of course, psychoanalyze yourself. I suffer from— which I think is a poor choice of words as I actually quite enjoy it— antisocial personality disorder. It's quite an interesting psychological illness, Nicholas. You may know those who suffer from it by a more colloquial name, like… sociopath? No? Then perhaps psychopath is a term you might prefer. To be honest, my favorite term to describe it is… genius." He shrugged.

"You _are_ psychotic," Nick said, shaking his head.

"I am free of emotion," Dr. Norris returned. "Can you _imagine_ the types of things your brain could do if it wasn't impeded by your emotions? If you weren't held back by your sense of ethics? Your moral values?" He leaned across the table and smiled at Nick. "Do you _know_ what a human being is capable of when he rises above morality?" He sighed, seeming to relax as he leaned back in his chair. "'One day men will look back and say I gave birth to the twentieth century.' Do you know who said that, Nicholas?"

Nick didn't reply.

Dr. Norris laughed. "One of the oldest, tentatively diagnosed cases of anti-social personality disorder in history belongs to a man who is known only by a self-christened pseudonym. Is that a good enough hint for you?"

"Jack the Ripper," Nick said quietly.

"Very _good_, Nicholas, I'm very proud of you," Dr. Norris said, condescendingly. "And look at the legacy he has left behind. He was a doctor as well, you know. Or, at least, it is assumed he was. I'd like to think that I'm the Jack the Ripper of this century."

"You don't kill prostitutes, you kill _families_," Nick hissed.

"Hypocritical families," Dr. Norris returned. "Each and _every_ one of my targets were church-going, God fearing folks with laundry so dirty it was toxic _waste_. A homophobic father who secretly molested his son. A mother who wouldn't let her daughter get a bellybutton ring because it was too promiscuous and yet she was having two separate affairs. A teenage boy who convinced himself that the people he beat up were sinners who deserved it. A preteen girl who clutched at her silver cross necklace as she dabbled in the occult."

"And Greg's family?" Nick asked. "What was so hypocritical about them?"

Dr. Norris sighed. "I told you, Lucy Sanders was my first kill. I had no reason other than to take what I needed."

Nick was tired. It was Christmas Day, and he wanted to go home. His shift ended an hour ago and he was stuck here with a self-described psychopath threatening to blow him into little bitty tiny pieces, and on top of that he was demanding to speak with Greg, doubtlessly to mess with the young CSI's head. All in all, this wasn't exactly the best Christmas ever.

"What are you planning on saying to him?" Nick asked, more as a means of passing the time than anything else. He doubted Dr. Norris would give him a straight answer.

But to his surprise, Dr. Norris grinned. "I wanted to thank him," he said. "Among other things."

"Thank him for what?" Nick asked, his heart beating faster.

"For helping me realize my true potential," Dr. Norris replied. "When I saw him throw his own sister to the ground in order to save his own life… It proved what I have been saying about humanity all along. I wrote my thesis on it, actually. I used him as a… 'hypothetical' example. About human kind's baser instincts to survive at all costs. You tell me that you're the youngest, Nicholas. If I offered to kill your brother, or kill you, what would you say?"

"I'd say kill me," Nick said boldly.

Dr. Norris let out a long, smug laugh as he shook his head, amused. "Of course you say that now, Nicholas. When you're not being tested. There's no way you could prove it, is there? No way you can show me that my thesis was incorrect? If Greg had a different history, and his sister was still alive today, he would probably try to tell me the same thing."

"You want me to prove it?" Nick asked. "Then blow me up right now, so help me God. If it'll keep you from doing any more damage than you've already done, if it'll keep you from Greg, than do it. Kill me now."

Dr. Norris narrowed his eyes at Nick, who remained expressionless. They both knew Nick was bluffing. But it was Dr. Norris's choice on whether or not he wanted to call that bluff. If Nick could spare Greg from anything this man had to say, he would do it. If he thought it would make a difference, he would let this guy blow him up right now to keep him from hurting any more people. But the truth was, Nick knew that was a stupid thing to die for.

Unless…

Unless there was an ulterior motive. Unless Dr. Norris wanted to do more than just _talk_ to Greg…

And then, the real reason occurred to him. The real reason Dr. Norris wanted to speak to Greg. The _real_ reason Dr. Norris was telling him what he wanted to say to the young CSI. Why Dr. Norris was asking Nick if he would be willing to die for his brother.

"_A first kill can often times be very important to a serial killer… His mind tends to dwell on it, as if he had left something… unfinished_."

The blood drained from his head and he felt dizzy, but he didn't waver. His hands, which were drenched in sweat by now, clenched and unclenched into fists. His dry tongue shot out in a futile attempt to moisten his chapped lips. He took deep breaths.

"You don't want to pull that trigger," Nick said. "At least, not while I'm the only one here."

"You _are_ a very smart boy, Nicholas," Dr. Norris said.

"I won't let you," Nick said, shaking his head. "I won't let him come in here. You will _never_ see him again, do you understand me?!"

"What are you going to do, Nicholas?" Dr. Norris asked. "Are you going to call him? Tell him it's a trap? Well good, I encourage you to, go on." He gestured at Nick's phone attached to his belt. Nick slowly reached for it. "Oh, but before you do… You might want to tell him that if he _doesn't_ come, well then that's his choice, but he may find himself short one Texan friend."

Nick stopped, his hand hovering over his phone. "I'm not going to let you get inside my head," he said. "I'm not going to make him make that decision again."

"So what, are you going to make it for him?" Dr. Norris asked with a smile. "How? Are you going to provoke me? Attack me? Seize the trigger from my hand? Play the part of the self-sacrificing hero?"

Nick's hand, still hovering over his phone, suddenly switched to his gun, his fingers closing around its hilt. He seemed to remember that he even possessed a gun for the first time in the conversation. But Dr. Norris shook his head.

"You can shoot me, Nicholas," he said. "But I guarantee that before you do, I will have pulled this trigger. And while my initial target may not have been reached, I'll be satisfied with killing you. And hey, you can go to the afterlife knowing that you proved my theory wrong. Good for you."

Nick stood there, aiming at the man with his gun for a long time, the sweat pouring down his face. He aimed for his head. It was a kill shot, but it was kill or be killed at this point in time. If he hit the man's head, he would have no time to pull the trigger.

Noting this, Dr. Norris slowly moved his trigger hand right in front of his face. Nick knew if he hit that, it would be the death of him, not to mention half the station. He prayed to God that Warrick and Sofia had evacuated the building and called the S.W.A.T. team. He hoped they thought of a solution before he poorly improvised his own.

"This is your chance," Dr. Norris said in a whisper. "This is your chance to prove what you've been bragging about. That you're willing to _die_ for someone else who's not even your real brother. If it makes a difference, Nicholas… if you can do that, it will really impress me."

But the truth was, Nick didn't _know_ if he really could do it. He did know that if he didn't do it, he would never be able to live with himself if it cost Greg his life. But Nick was quite fond of living. He had put up with a lot just to make sure that he was still breathing. He concentrated on his breathing then. Deep, low breaths, in and out, his heartbeat pounding in his chest. Was he about to die? Were these his last breaths? He had thought these things before, and he had been wrong then. But was he wrong now? Every second that he hesitated was another second that Greg could burst through that door. And then, the odds were that they would _both_ be dead. Nick had never considered himself a hero. He had always liked to think he would do anything for his family and his friends. But Dr. Norris was right. Now was his chance to do it.

He thought of Grissom again. Grissom would know what to do. Grissom would find a way to negotiate with this man. Grissom would find a solution in which everyone would come out alive. Nick had always had a sort of naïve blind faith in Grissom, like a small child might have in his father. Grissom was Superman, and he was never lost, and he always did the right thing. Nick's life had been saved by Grissom on more than one occasion. Where was his wise supervisor to burst in and save him now?

_Probably with Sara_, he thought, and with a painful lurch of his heart, he thought of the woman Greg and Catherine had so gallantly gone to save, who was injured in some unknown way. Possibly fatal, Nick wasn't sure, all he knew was she was alive for now. At the time that was all he wanted to know. But now, he _needed_ to be sure that she was going to be OK. He needed to know that she would smile again, and laugh again, and just be _Sara_ again. Because he couldn't imagine a world without Sara. It was too much. She was his friend. His sister He needed to know that she would be alright. He needed to know that Catherine and Greg's efforts weren't in vain. He needed to know if they were going to lose one CSI that night… or two. Or more. Greg.

If Greg walked in there, if Greg was put in the same position as Nick, what would he chose? If he chose to die himself, Nick would never be able to live with himself. But after the emotional torture he went through with his sister, Nick firmly believed that if Greg left Nick there to die, it would drive the younger man insane. He couldn't say what Greg would choose, and hoped it wouldn't come to that. He would make _sure_ it didn't come to that. Yes. Nick wouldn't let Greg make that choice. Nick was going to end it now.

He wondered what Warrick would do. The two had grown very close in their long time working together. If Greg was a younger brother to him, then Warrick was his twin. They did everything together. Warrick was more inside of Nick's head than anyone else. He always knew he could count on him. He remembered Warrick's face when they had found him after the kidnapping. He had been the one to tell Nick to lower the gun. He had stayed by him, even when Grissom told him to move. He, along with Catherine, had ridden with him to the hospital…

Catherine. Catherine… He closed his eyes and the tears leaked out. He had no thoughts for Catherine, only a surge of regret that began in his stomach and strangled his heart. Catherine. He only hoped that she had been honest with him in the hallway, that she had only been vulnerable in that layout room. He hoped she had meant it when she told him they were just friends. Because he couldn't bear to think of what it would do to her if she had lied.

And so with her face at the forefront of his thoughts, Nick made his decision as he took aim and pulled the trigger. 


	16. Explosive Situation

_**Author's Note:**_ I could say something now. But I won't. I'll update soon, cross my heart.

* * *

Chapter Sixteen: Explosive Situation

Nothing happened. For a moment, Nick thought he was dead. It took him a few seconds to realize that he was still breathing, that his heart was still pounding desperately against his ribcage as if in protest of his suicidal actions. He still felt the sweat on the back of his neck. He still felt the gun in his hand. And worst of all, Dr. Rupert Norris was still alive, and grinning at him, the trigger inches away from his nose.

"What…?" Nick began, frowning at his gun.

He pulled the trigger again. There was a dull _click_ and nothing more. He pulled it again, and again, and again, becoming angry. Why wasn't his weapon obeying him? Had he made such a rookie mistake as to leave the safety on?

"I've heard that," Dr. Norris began helpfully, "with the war in Iraq, there is an ammunition shortage among the police department at home."

"I'm not out of ammo…" Nick said incredulously. But when he thought about it, he couldn't remember when he'd last loaded his gun. He'd shot a few rounds off at a target range that weekend with Warrick… Hadn't he reloaded? _Hadn't_ he???

Nick began to panic now. He shook his head. "No…" he said. "No, I was going to _kill_ you! I was going to kill _both _of us!"

"And what a noble, albeit stupid, act that would have been, too," Dr. Norris said with a small laugh as he brought the trigger down from his face. "Such a shame you don't know how to load your own gun."

Nick was still baffled. "But… I… _dammit_!" he cursed, throwing his useless firearm to the floor. No bullets. No _bullets_. What were the odds he would _forget_ to reload his gun?

"If it makes a difference…" Dr. Norris said with a shrug. "I _am_ impressed."

"Shut up," Nick said flatly, jaded. He sighed and his eyes rolled up to the ceiling as if asking some higher power why he had to deal with this moronic situation.

And then, his phone began to ring. He gave Dr. Norris an irritated look. "Can I answer that?"

Dr. Norris shrugged at him with open arms, his palms up. "By all means."

Shaking his head, still feeling like the world's grandest idiot, Nick answered his phone automatically. "Stokes," he said apathetically.

"Nicky?"

Her voice startled him into caring again. "Catherine?"

"Nick, are you OK? What's going on? Warrick says you're in there with a guy with a _bomb_ strapped to his chest?!"

"Yeah, I think that about covers it," Nick said with a sigh.

"Well you don't sound too torn up about it," Catherine said, sounding annoyed.

"Believe me, if you'd called thirty seconds ago, I would have sounded fifty times more nervous," Nick replied. "As it is, I'm just pissed."

"What do we do?"

"Don't send Greg in here," Nick said firmly, speaking more to Dr. Norris then to Catherine.

"What? But Warrick said that's what—"

"Exactly," Nick said. "It's what he wants. He wants to kill Greg. So whatever the hell you do, do _not_ let him in here."

"But then how do we let you out?" Catherine asked.

"I'm working on it," Nick replied.

"That's reassuring," Catherine said sarcastically.

Nick had to smile. "It's good to hear your voice, Cath," he said honestly. "Really."

"Nick, I…" She sounded at a loss for words. "I… want you to be OK."

"That'd be nice," Nick said, nodding, his heart lurching at the worry in her voice.

"It would be _really_ nice," Catherine said.

"Is Sara OK?" Nick asked.

"She'll be alright, I think," Catherine replied. "She was shot in her right shoulder. But she's a fighter. She'll pull through. I… I think. To be honest, right now I'm more worried about you. We all want you out of there unharmed. We don't want any more lives lost today."

"That would definitely be ideal," Nick said, though he doubted it would happen.

"So tell me what I can do," Catherine said. "Tell me how we can help you."

"You can help him," Dr. Norris called loudly across the room, "by sending in Greg Sanders."

"Nick, who was that?" Catherine asked. "Was that him?"

Nick swallowed. "Uh… yeah, that was him," Nick said. "Listen, Catherine… You send Greg in, he'll just kill us both. We have the upper hand here. So long as he doesn't have Greg, he won't kill me."

"You're lying," Dr. Norris said in a sing song voice. "Tell her the truth, Nicholas."

He licked his lips again. They tasted salty from the sweat. He pursed his lips. "That _is_ the truth," he said at last.

"Nick, you smacked your lips, you only do that when you lie," Catherine said.

"Jesus, does _everyone_ know that?!" Nick exclaimed, laughing out of sheer frustration.

"What's going on?" Catherine asked firmly. "What's he talking about? What does he want?"

Nick sighed. "OK, Catherine… if you don't send Greg… He'll kill me instead."

Catherine was quiet for a long time. "And if we do send in Greg, he'll kill you both."

"I think that's the plan," Nick said nodding.

"I will not," Dr. Norris said loudly. "You have my word that Nicholas will leave here unharmed if you give me Greg Sanders."

"The word of a sociopath, what's that good for?" Nick spat at Dr. Norris. He turned back to his phone. "Listen, Cath, I've put a lot of thought into this. I'm not going to risk the both of us. And I'm not going to let Greg make that choice either, so please don't tell him."

"Nick, I…" There was noise on the other end of the line. Catherine sighed, sounding defeated, lost. "Nicky…"

"I mean it, Catherine," Nick said. "You can't send Greg in here."

"Nick…"

"I'll figure a way out of this," Nick interrupted, having the feeling she would protest. "Just don't tell him."

"But Nick—"

"Tell him there was nothing he could have done," Nick said.

"_Nick_!" Catherine said firmly. "It's too _late_." She was crying now. He could hear it. "He's already _gone_."

Nick froze. "What?"

"He's _gone_, he was listening and now he's _gone_, he's gone in the building, Nick, I couldn't—"

He hung up on her. He stared at Dr. Norris, who was smiling at him in his irritatingly smug fashion.

"When he gets here, you're free to go," Dr. Norris said casually.

"I'm also free to stay," Nick said.

"And what good will that do, Nicholas? Kill you both?" Dr. Norris asked. "Take a page out of Greg's book and abandon your younger brother."

"He was _ten years old_!" Nick snarled. "He was _scared_!"

"And you're not?" Dr. Norris asked.

Nick didn't have the chance to reply. The door to the interrogation room opened and Greg slowly stepped into view, his gun drawn and trained on Dr. Norris, his face inscrutable, and yet somehow hardened. But Nick saw his hands shaking. Dr. Norris had brought his trigger hand right in front of his face again.

"Nick," Greg said coolly, his eyes never leaving Dr. Norris. "Get out of here."

"Greg—"

"Trust me when I tell you we have it _covered_," Greg snapped authoritatively, sounding much older than he was. Nick was almost intimidated by the younger man.

"I'm not going to let you kill yourself," Nick said.

"Thanks, Nick," Greg said. "When I plan on overdosing or slitting my wrists, you'll be the first person I call. Now get the _hell_ out of here."

"He's going to _kill_ you, Greg!" Nick said angrily.

"Not today he's not," Greg said, his eyes on Dr. Norris.

"He always was a naïve child," Dr. Norris said, shaking his head. "Always in denial."

"I wasn't talking to you," Greg growled. He looked at Nick, and his expression softened. "Nick… Nick, you've gotta trust me. Please."

Nick hesitated, but saw the desperation in Greg's eyes. A tear escaped his own as he began to feel nauseous for betraying his friend, even if his friend was ordering Nick to betray him. "I tried to stop this, Greg. Believe me, I did."

"He did," Dr. Norris vouched.

"If I recall, you weren't a part of this conversation," Greg snapped at Dr. Norris. He turned back to Nick. "You, I'll deal with later. And I promise there will be a later. But for now, just _listen_ to me."

"Didn't your mother ever tell you not to make promises you can't keep?" Dr. Norris asked. "Oh, wait. Your mother didn't speak to you for two whole years."

Nick saw Greg's teeth clench. "Get out of here, Nick. This is between me and him now."

It felt like he was trying to walk on Jupiter his feet were so heavy. He had to drag them to the door and every step felt like death. Though he was actually walking away from it, Nick imagined he was walking towards his own execution. In reality, he was signing his friend's death certificate.

Or so he thought.

Nick reached the door and gave one last look at Greg before vanishing out of sight behind it.

* * *

Greg's breathing was steady and he tried to get his hands to mimic it. They were still shaking against his will.

"What's it going to take for you to get that damn trigger out of your face?" Greg snapped.

"When you lower your weapon away from my head, I'll lower mine," Dr. Norris replied. "How much does it really matter? We'll both die soon anyway."

"Don't you have anything to say first?" Greg asked, not lowering his gun.

"I wanted to thank you," Dr. Norris began. "For—"

"You know what?" Greg interrupted, lowering his gun. "I don't actually want to hear it."

Dr. Norris lowered the trigger away from his face. "Are you ready to die, Greg?"

The smallest, smuggest smile appeared on Greg's lips. "No," he said. "Are you?"

Dr. Norris's thumb moved to the trigger. Greg took a deep breath.

"_Fire_."

There was a shattering of glass and a grunt from Dr. Norris as his brains were splattered across the walls. Greg looked over his shoulder at the shattered, one-way glass, behind which stood two members of the S.W.A.T. team, their sniper rifles still raised. They lowered them and three members of the bomb squad swarmed into the room past Greg to the dead Dr. Norris in order to disarm the bomb. Behind the glass, still looking pale and a little shaken, stood Nick in the corner as he shook his head. Their eyes met. Greg's eyes narrowed, his heart racing as his emotions flared. He shook his head before walking into the room behind the glass, his eyes deadly. Nick approached him and they were feet apart before Greg launched himself at his friend, knocking him to the ground as he punched him in the stomach.

"_You stupid son of a bitch_!" Greg was yelling wildly, somewhere between laughing and crying hysterically.

"Whoa!" Nick said, catching Greg's wrists as they swung in the air. "_Whoa_, Greg, _stop_!"

When Nick had finally caught hold of Greg's hands, he was able to discern from the tears running down his friend's face that he was actually crying. He was panting heavily, his face livid with fury as he glared at Nick.

"I told you I'd deal with you," Greg snapped. "What the _hell_ were you thinking? You should have _known_ we had professionals, you should have _known_ we would have _all_been listening to Catherine's call, you should have _known_ we would have been able to come up with a better plan than you _blowing yourself up_! Were you _born_ without a brain or has it just stopped working after years of disuse?!"

Greg closed his eyes tight and tossed his head back as the tears continued to roll down his cheeks. He yanked his wrists out of Nick's grip and let his arms fall to his sides. He took a deep breath and looked down at Nick, who looked up at him, absolutely petrified.

"I mean _Jesus_, Nick, don't you think I've done _enough_ tonight and now I have to come here and save _your_ stupid ass?!"

Nick couldn't help it. He burst out laughing he was so happy, joy swelling in his chest. Staring at him, a smile broke Greg's otherwise furious features and he started laughing, too. He rolled off of Nick and onto his back as the two of them just lied there on the floor, laughing as they stared up at the ceiling, listening to shouts from the S.W.A.T. team and the bomb squad declaring that things were 'all clear.'

"_Never_ do that to me again, Nick, do you understand?" Greg said, shaking his head.

Nick chuckled. "Yeah. Sure."

"I feel like a superhero today," Greg said. "It's like, everywhere I turn, I see people who need me to rescue them." He put on a high pitched voice. "'Help me, Greg, help me!' I swear, the next thing you know Grissom is going to fall down a well and break his leg and only I will be able to get him out of there."

"You're crazy," Nick said with a dopy smile.

"You're an idiot," Greg returned.

"We really are a pair, then, aren't we?" Nick said, turning his head to smirk at Greg.

They heard footsteps and then someone interrupted their view of the ceiling, standing over them and looking down at them with a cocked eyebrow.

Like identical twins they both raised their hand and waved up at him, with the same grins on their faces, both of them panting as if they had just ran a marathon.

Grissom rolled his eyes. "You two getting up anytime soon?"

"Probably not," Nick said, laughing lightly.

Warrick appeared next to Grissom and smirked down at the two of them. "Wow, Nick, you really need to learn to stop getting into trouble. We're getting really tired of pulling you out of tight spots."

Nick hit his calf and grinned in reply.

"_Nick!_" came a high pitched shriek and Nick propped himself up to see an enraged Catherine Willows standing in the doorway, her hands on her hips. His eyes widened as he backed up against the wall and scrambled to his feet as Catherine headed over to him step by step. He held up his hands to defend himself.

"Now, Catherine…" he said slowly. "Greg already kicked my ass for being an—"

But she grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and shoved him against the wall, glaring at him piercingly. "You are by far the _stupidest_ person I have _ever_ met."

"Yeah, I know," Nick said, a flush beginning to creep in his cheeks. He noticed that she was holding him with her left arm when she was right-handed. Her right arm was hanging uselessly at her side. There was an unnatural bump on her forearm with a sickly yellow discoloration around it that made him nervous. "What happened to your arm?"

Her eyes narrowed. Nick thought she would strike him clear across the face. So it came as a complete surprised to him when he felt her lips firmly pressed against his own. But it was a pleasant surprise, and far more welcome than a punch in the face as he embraced her.

Finally, she broke the kiss staring at him breathless as she shook her head before letting go of his shirt, slapping him clear across the face, turning on her heal, and walking out.

Rubbing his sore cheek, he stared after her and looked at his male colleagues, who looked to be suppressing a few laughs.

Clueless, he said, "Am I supposed to understand what that meant?" 


	17. Pie

_**Author's Note:**_ Argh. Probably my most difficult chapter to write _ever_. As a multishipper, I thought I could write just about anything. I realized (in writing CatNip) that I can't. I'll still read it, though. Oh well. It's good to learn things about yourself. Sorry if the romance in this comes off as forced, but I already explained why that was. Still, I love romance with issues. Not everything is always black and white like it is in romantic comedies and romance novels. I did enjoy writing the latter half of this chapter. Mainly because I love pie. And I want pie and I don't have pie. So it made me sad. And thus, the title. One more chapter after this, and then it's over. Er... oh. **Tricks-meuler**, I wanted to thank you publicly for your compliment about how I write APD sufferers. I'm _very_ glad you found him enjoyable, and believable. I did my final project in psychology on antisocial personality disorder because I find it the most fascinating mental illness... ever... So I'm just all proud and stuff when people say that it comes off genuine.

**A note on future stories:** This one is coming to a close. Currently, I'm writing two others. So Close To Home, a dark Greg fic (do I really write anything else?) and something that I've been having a lot of fun with lately called Defining Death, which is a Sara/Greg (moooostly friendship...) black comedy/spoof and I promise you it will be different from any story you've read on FFN (except for the things it's spoofing, which will be evident in the story). I challenge **fvhardy** (if she's reading this) to go post the story she described for me, and then and only then will I post So Close To Home (as they have similar themes). So go bug her. I will too. OK, actually don't bug her. She probably isn't ready to post yet.

So which will come first, the angsty Greg piece or the humor Greg/Sara piece? You saw an excerpt of SCTH, so I'll post one for Defining Death at the end of this story. Right now, I'm more into the comedy, as I'm in bad need of a break from all the angst I've been writing. I don't know why I never seem to run out of ideas. It's a curse. Not a gift. Believe me.

* * *

  


Chapter Seventeen: Pie

Nick chased after Catherine into the hall as she made her way briskly away from him, obviously trying to avoid him, but he wouldn't let her get away that easily this time.

"Hey!" he called after her and she stopped and turned towards him. He hadn't expected her to do that. He had been prepared to chase her down, to speed up, so when she stopped her actually stumbled and almost tripped.

"What?" she asked him innocently.

"What was that about?" he asked her.

"You're an idiot," she replied.

"No, I got that part," Nick said slowly. "But I thought you told me…"

"I need someone to drive me to the hospital," Catherine interrupted. "Bum arm, don't you know." She shrugged her left shoulder and then spun around and continued to head towards the exit.

Nick blinked. "Uh, yeah, sure, right," he said, beginning to follow her. He fished his keys out of his pocket as he caught up with her. "But, uh… I'm not too good at reading your actions, Cath. You're going to have to use words with me. I'm a bit thickheaded when it comes to body language."

"You're a bit thickheaded period," Catherine retorted.

She was still annoyed. Nick could tell. "Um… why did you kiss me then, if you have such a low opinion of me?"

Catherine stopped walking and turned to face him. "Because while you're thickheaded, you are _exceptionally_ adorable." And with that, she started walking again.

But Nick (being thickheaded as he was) was still very confused. "So what do you _want_ from me exactly?" he asked.

"Right now?" Catherine said. "I want you to drive me to the hospital."

"Fine," Nick said, becoming frustrated. "Do you want to know what I want?"

"Not particularly," she replied.

He was insulted. "Well _I_ want to know what kind of games you're playing, Catherine. Might I remind you that every time your tongue ends up in my mouth, _you're_ the one who initiates it? And then we _never_ talk about it! And when we _do_ talk about it, you either tell me it was a mistake or avoid the issue completely! I am so beyond confused right now!"

Outside now, she headed straight for Nick's car and silently waited for him to unlock it. Rolling his eyes, he did and she climbed inside the passenger seat as he took the driver's side. Neither one of them spoke on the way to the hospital. Nick was too frustrated to bring it up again and Catherine was too stubborn.

Halfway there, Catherine spoke up. "After I'm done, we can go see how Sara's doing. I don't want her to wake up and have no one be there."

"Yeah," Nick mumbled, irritated. She continued to skirt the issue. So he used this to his advantage. "She's a pretty girl."

Catherine looked at him, confused. "Sara?"

"Sure," Nick said.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Catherine asked.

"Nothing," Nick said. "It's just an observation."

Catherine let out a sigh as she looked straight out the windshield again. She wasn't biting. "I hope she's OK."

"She was shot in the shoulder, right?" Nick said. "Paramedics got to her? She should be."

"Unless there were complications," Catherine said. "They said they didn't think it hit an artery, but it could have. It might have damaged her muscle tissue… I don't think there was an exit wound. She'll need surgery."

All of a sudden, Nick was worried too. "Surgery?" he asked, his concern showing in his voice as he glanced at her.

She smiled at him reassuringly. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything. I just have to think of the worst case scenario. It's how I deal with things if they…" She trailed off.

Nick was still thinking about Sara. "Surgery??"

"Nick, surgeries happen every day, she'll be fine."

"I feel terrible," Nick said, shaking his head. "I haven't really had time to worry about Sara. First with Dr. Norris, and then with _you_ being so _crazy_."

Catherine didn't speak for a moment, which left Nick to his thoughts. He imagined the sight of Sara, pale and alone in a hospital bed because everyone had abandoned her to go save _him_. Regardless of everyone calling him one, it was the first time he _really_ felt like an idiot. _She_ had gotten herself shot and he tried to upstage her by almost getting himself blown up. She'd been shot and he was worried about Catherine's mixed signals. His felt like such a moron. He hoped she was OK…

"_How_ pretty?"

He blinked, startled from his thoughts. "What?"

"Sara," Catherine clarified. "Exactly how pretty do you think she is?"

Nick started laughing as he shook his head. "I knew it," he said.

"Knew what?" Catherine asked.

"You're such a liar," Nick replied.

Catherine sighed and held her forehead in her good arm. "OK, Nick… Fine. If you want to talk about this now while your friend is lying in a hospital bed after being _shot_—"

"Don't do that," Nick said, shaking his head. "Don't try and make me feel guilty about Sara. Believe me, I feel bad enough. And you know we're going to have to talk about this sooner or later. I mean, kiss me once, shame on you. Kiss me twice, you better believe we're gonna talk about it."

"You and your bastardizations of things," Catherine growled. "Clichés, friendships…"

"I didn't bastardize this friendship!" Nick snapped. "That was all you."

She looked up at him with blue eyes that were strangely magnified as they glinted in the dim light of the rising dawn. She looked away again and he was instantly guilty, looking away from her and gritting his teeth.

"Catherine, I'm sorry…" he began. "I didn't mean…"

"If you want the truth, Nick," Catherine interrupted. "I don't know what I want from you…"

"So we're stuck in a sort of limbo until you figure it out?" Nick asked. "Not friends, not anything more, not anything less… not anything at all… what _are_ we, Catherine? Because I don't like not knowing."

"You're just so warm…" she whispered, shaking her head. "Which is strange, because I usually am attracted to colder men, sharper men, slicker men who…" She sighed. "Men who aren't _you_. And… and I almost lost you today. And that scared the hell out of me."

"I can't make heads or tails out of you, Catherine," Nick said. "Which is ridiculous, because before all this went down, I thought I understood you so well…"

"Then maybe we aren't supposed to be doing this," Catherine said.

Nick let out a disappointed sigh as they pulled into the Desert Palms parking lot and parked the car. After he turned off the ignition he turned to look at her. She was so beautiful. He didn't realize why he'd never seen it before. Up until that first kiss, his feelings for Catherine had been strictly platonic. But the fire she had lit under him was still making him dance. He knew exactly what he wanted. He wanted to taste her again. He wanted to tell her it would all be OK. He wanted her to want him back.

But he knew from the way she was avoiding the conversation that she didn't.

He got out of the car and headed through the front doors, checking in at the front desk.

"Thank you, ma'am, we'll call you when we're ready," said the secretary.

"Excuse me," Nick said. "Could you tell me where Sara Sidle's room is?"

The secretary turned to her computer and typed in the name, scanning a list. "Er… it seems Sara Sidle is still in surgery, but if you want the OR waiting room is upstairs. They'll tell you what room she's in when she comes out of surgery."

Nick's stomach began twisting itself in knots. "She's _still_ in surgery?" he asked. "She was brought in hours ago."

The secretary smiled sympathetically. "Medicine takes time, sir. It says here she was brought in with a gunshot wound to the shoulder? My guess is they're just removing the bullet. Relax. You couldn't have believed she would have come in and out of here in half an hour."

Nick didn't know why, but he had believed that. In his mind, he had imagined Sara sleeping peacefully in a hospital bed, not lying on some operating table. The thought made him feel ill and he wondered if maybe he should ask to get checked out by a doctor.

"You can go upstairs if you want," Catherine said after a moment, snapping Nick back to the present.

"What?" he asked.

"To wait for Sara. I'll be fine here."

He smiled. "I'll hear from Sara when there's more to hear. I don't want to leave you alone down here."

She smiled, and her cheeks went a little pink as she nodded and took her seat. He sat down next to her. Neither one of them spoke for a very long time as they waited patiently for someone to call Catherine's name. It was very awkward, for both of them, but they each felt that talking would be worse, and so they kept their silence for fifteen minutes.

"Lindsey broke her wrist once when she was six," Catherine said at last, conversationally.

Nick was glad for the small talk. "Really?"

"Her pediatrician recommended this brilliant orthopedist. I could have gone to him tonight. But I wanted to come here. I wanted to see Sara."

He nodded. He wanted to see Sara too. "She'll be OK, Catherine."

"Greg shot someone today," Catherine said quietly. "Three times. It's been bothering him. I think it will continue to bother him for a really long time."

"Greg was a real hero tonight, wasn't he?" Nick said, laughing lightly.

Catherine smiled. "He's a good kid," she agreed. "He fights hard to do what's right. I think a part of him is trying to make up for what happened to him when he was a kid."

"You know about that?" Nick asked her curiously.

She shrugged. "I don't have to," she said. "I know his sister died, and he blames himself. After what happened at the library, that was pretty clear…"

They drifted off into silence again.

But Catherine couldn't stand it. "I think that… I'm only attracted to you when I'm at my weakest…"

He looked up at this. She was addressing the issue. She wasn't running from it. "And why's that?"

"Because as much as I am loath to admit it, I think that I just want someone to take care of me…" She looked up at him, a singular tear visible on her cheek. "Does that make me weak?"

He gave her the biggest smile he could muster before reaching out and cupping her face in his hand, pushing the tear away with his thumb. "It makes you human," he replied. She smiled back and he leaned forward, slowly, not breaking eye contact with her until she closed her eyes and he took this as a good sign. His other hand rose up to hold her other cheek as he kissed her softly, slowly, sweetly. To reassure her that he was still her friend, regardless of whatever else she wanted from him.

"Catherine Willows?"

She pulled away from the kiss and looked up to see a doctor holding a chart, glancing around the waiting room. She smiled at Nick, whose hands were still on either side of her face. She brought her left hand up and placed it on top of his before pulling it down and squeezing it tightly for good measure before rising to her feet and going with the doctor.

* * *

After Catherine left, Nick had gone up to the OR waiting room, where he had found Greg sprawled out across four chairs, snoring loudly. He had to laugh a little. Warrick was sitting close to him, every so often pushing Greg's feet off of his lap as he tried to read _Time_ Magazine. Brass looked to be trying to get something out of the vending machine. He shouldn't have been surprised to see his colleagues there. After all, after seeing Nick was alright, Sara was probably everyone's first concern.

"How's Catherine?" came a voice from behind Nick, making him jump.

"She'll be OK," Nick replied, turning around to see Grissom balancing two Styrofoam cups of coffee on top of a cardboard box. He offered one to Nick, who took it.

"And the two of you?" Grissom pressed.

Nick was instantly uncomfortable. "Um…"

He smiled. "You don't have to answer that. To be honest, I don't think I really want to know." He nodded at Nick who leaned against the wall as Grissom headed across the room, towards Warrick who looked up from his magazine.

"Your pie," Grissom said, dropping it on Warrick's lap.

Warrick cocked an eyebrow at him. "This is store-bought. I thought you were supposed to bake it yourself?"

"Details," Grissom said. "You think I have time to go home and bake you a pie?"

"It's all about the details, Griss, isn't that what you're always telling us?" Warrick returned.

He smiled warmly. "Take it home," he said. "To your wife and family. We can hold down the fort here."

"No way," Warrick said, leaning back in his chair as Greg's foot kicked its way back onto his lap. He made no move to push it away this time. "I'm not getting out of this chair short of you bringing me a homemade pie or someone coming in here telling us Sara's ready for visitors."

Grissom sighed, sounding exasperated. "Warrick, it's Christmas morning. Don't you want to be with your family?"

"I _am_ with my family," he returned.

They were bold words, as far as Nick was concerned. Sara or Grissom calling the team family, that was one thing. They didn't have much else outside of work. Even hearing Greg or himself calling the team family would have been acceptable, as neither one of them had family in Nevada. But for Warrick, who had a loving wife, in-laws, and his own grandmother waiting at home for him, those were pretty impressive words.

And Grissom didn't buy it. "I'm sure Tina would love to hear you say that."

Warrick sighed and looked down. Momentarily, and not for the first time, Nick wondered if there were problems at home that Warrick wasn't owning up to. Warrick looked up at Grissom with inscrutable eyes. "Sorry, Grissom. I can't move. This guy has me pinned down." He jabbed his thumb at Greg, who let out a particularly loud snore as he moved to get a little bit more comfortable on the chair he was in, kicking Warrick in the stomach. Warrick didn't look like he minded at all.

Grissom narrowed his eyes at Warrick suspiciously and lifted the cardboard box he had left on Warrick's lap before Greg decided to crush it with his kicking feet. "OK," he said. "But I'm taking my pie back."

He sat in a chair across from Warrick and Greg, and as if sensing the possibility of food, Brass made a beeline for him and took a seat next to him, even going so far as to open the lid of the box himself.

"Ooh, pumpkin. That's my favorite kind of pie, you know," he said, an obvious bid for a piece of it.

Grissom rolled his eyes and handed the pie to Brass. "Vending machine not working for you?"

"It ate a five dollar bill and I'm not eating anything," Brass replied, revealing a spoon he had seemingly plucked from thin air.

"Except my pie," Grissom said, sipping his coffee.

"I want pie," Nick said, sitting down on the other side of Brass, who produced a second spoon for Nick. "Where'd you get those anyway?"

"There's some hot water and instant coffee packets on the table over there," Brass said. "Plus spoons. For stirring."

"Why didn't you just get coffee from there?" Nick asked Grissom, sipping his own cup.

"Because I hate instant coffee," Grissom replied.

"If they get pie, then I get pie," Warrick said.

"You had your chance," Grissom said.

Warrick rolled his eyes and pushed Greg's feet off of his lap so hard, the rest of the young CSI went tumbling to the floor. Warrick tried to suppress his laughter and failed miserably as Greg sat up and looked around, as though afraid of some sort of emergency. The rest of them laughed a little too.

"Sorry, Greg," Warrick said, not sounding apologetic at all.

Greg sat up on the floor and yawned loudly as he stretched out his arms. "What time is it?"

" 8:30," Brass replied.

"Kids are waking up now and opening presents," Greg said sleepily. "I want presents."

"Have some pie," Nick offered, and Greg was immediately awake.

"Pie?"

They laughed as Greg went and got more spoons for the rest of them and they all had their own piece of the pie. Grissom saved a quarter of it for Catherine and Sara. The rest of their conversation was amiable jokes and small-talk which was altogether unimportant. But they were all smiling, regardless of how exhausted they were, and despite the length and events of the night before, they were all in high spirits.

After about an hour, Catherine came to join them, her broken arm in a cast and sling. Greg insisted they all signed it, and took up as much space as possible with his own name. Catherine decided she'd buy Sara her own pie as she finished what Grissom had left with a voracious appetite.

"I haven't eaten since shift started," she explained. "And this is damn good pie."

She looked up at Nick, and her smile broadened. He smiled back.

It was amazing how much pie could improve your spirits and heal your soul.


	18. Every Time A Bell Rings

_**Author's Note:**_ There will be an epilogue.

Quick poll: Who thinks I resolved the Cat/Nick storyline? Who wants another scene for them? Say so in the reviews, please.

Also, there will be no preview of upcoming stories. I have too many ideas. I will tell you it will be either So Close to Home, Defining Death, or something completely new. Nevada Devil kind of died. Sorry.

* * *

  


Chapter Eighteen: Every Time A Bell Rings  


Danny tried hard to listen to his court-appointed attorney, but found if very difficult to understand what he was saying. The words went in one ear and out the other. He didn't know what was going on. His mind was on Sara, and only Sara, and he didn't really care what happened to him anyway.

So when his lawyer asked him those dreaded words, he had to lie. "Do you understand me, Daniel?"

The teenager nodded dully. "But I did it," he said. "I don't care what they _do_ to me. I helped him to kill people. That's… that's not right."

"But you never actually _killed_ anyone, did you Daniel?" The lawyer asked, sounding exasperated. Danny had the feeling that his lawyer didn't think very highly of him. He was constantly looking at his watch as if there was somewhere he'd rather be. On Christmas day, Danny didn't doubt it. But he also felt like the lawyer thought Danny was an idiot. That was easy for a lawyer to think. Lawyers thought everyone who didn't finish school were idiots. But Danny knew a lot more than the lawyer did on how to survive when you didn't trust anyone in the world. Danny knew a lot about fighting.

"I didn't pull no triggers," Danny said. "But I didn't do nothing to stop Mickey from doing it."

"But you didn't _know_ that Mickey was going to kill that family, did you?" his lawyer asked.

Danny knew the answer he wanted, but he couldn't give it. "Of course I knew. Mickey's only been planning it for the last month."

His lawyer rolled his eyes and leaned across the table so he could look Danny in the eye. "Listen, kid. Do you want to go to jail? Because you're doing a bang-up job of incriminating yourself."

"I should pay for the crimes I've done," Danny said. "I'm not scared."

"It's not sunshine and roses in prison, Daniel," his lawyer said. "Your mommy doesn't cook for you and your roommate won't be so nice."

"If you knew anything about me, Mr. Douglas, you'd know that I don't have a mother, and I'm used to 'not nice,'" Daniel returned.

But the lawyer sighed and leaned back in his chair as he shook his head, taking in Danny's small frame. "They'll make mince meat out of you, kid. Believe me."

"I've dealt with worse at home," Danny returned. "Believe _me_."

"Look," the lawyer said. "You're sorry, right? That's good. The jury will take pity on you for that. And you're young, and you're kinda cute too, they'll like that too. So you have a few things going for you. I doubt you'll get a life sentence. First offense, sixteen-year-old kid, you'll probably just get a few years in juvy, but that's with me on your side. You gotta do everything I tell you, understand?"

"I don't think I want you as my lawyer, Mr. Douglas," Danny said.

"Without me, kid, you're looking at fifteen to twenty hard time," said the lawyer.

Danny sighed. He didn't feel like he deserved special treatment just because he was young, or cute, or because he admitted remorse. He still did what he did. And four people were dead because of it. Five, if you counted Mickey himself. And six, if Sara…

"Excuse me," he said. "Do you know what happened to Sara?"

The lawyer looked confused momentarily, then it seemed to register in his head. "The CSI that Mickey shot," he said. "Right. Last I checked, she was just coming out of surgery."

"Is there anyway that I could maybe… see her?" His voice trailed off until it was barely audible because he knew the chances of seeing her were slim. And she probably didn't want to see him anyway. She probably hated him. He even hated himself a little.

The lawyer sighed, seeming to soften a little upon this request. "I'm afraid not, Daniel. However, we do have someone else here to see you."

Danny was confused. Who would want to see him? And then, the door opened and his uncle stepped in and his heart plummeted into his stomach and was devoured by the acids. "I don't want to talk to you, he said."

Uncle Ian looked down then up again as he kneeled next to Danny's chair. His eyes were bloodshot and tired. His breath smelled of coffee. He was sober.

"Danny…" he said quietly. "I know I haven't done right by you. And because of that, I haven't done right by your mother."

Danny's lower lip trembled as he watched this man speak. He knew later he would just get drunk again and render all these apologies void.

"I'm hiring a lawyer," he said to Danny. "A better one." He looked at Danny's lawyer. "No offense, sir."

"None taken," said the lawyer with a stiff smile that showed at least some offense had been taken.

Uncle Ian turned to look at Danny again. "I know a lot of this is my fault, and so I want to help you, Danny. I don't want you to end up like your father. I'm sure your mother wouldn't want that either. So it's costing me all I have, but I'm getting you the best lawyer I can afford right now, kiddo. I'm gonna clean up my act, too. I promise."

Danny was shaking his head. "You said that before…" he whispered. "You've said that a _lot_."

"I know…" Uncle Ian said, tears beginning to leak out of the corners of his eyes. "I know, but this time I mean it, Danny. I mean it so much that I'm willing to give you up for a little while, until I can take care of you again. When you get out of jail there's someone else who will look after you for a few months, until I've gone to my AA meetings and I've gotten myself together. I'm gonna get a better job, Danny. Something I should have done a long time ago. I'm filling out applications. It's going to be rough, but…" He hesitated. The next words seemed like they were difficult for him to say. "But your Dad is helping us out some."

Danny blinked. "Dad?" he asked, breathlessly.

Uncle Ian took a deep breath and bit his lip before he nodded. "When your mother was pregnant, he actually did something smart. He started a college fund for you, Danny. With what little money he had then, he invested it in your future. And he didn't want to touch it. He couldn't. That's why he stole, Danny. That's why he was arrested. The state took back every dime. But they couldn't touch your account, because that was what was left of his own hard-earned cash from scrimping and saving as a janitor. He knew that, Danny. Your father was smart. That's why he never put stolen funds into your account. He didn't want the government to ever try and take it from you. It's your money, Danny."

"Then use it," Danny said. "Use it to buy yourself a suit and tie for those interviews you're gonna be having. Use it to buy real food instead of pork rinds and whiskey. Use it to help clean yourself up."

"No, Danny," Ian said. "I'm saving that money so you can go to college. A cheap college… but college is college, right? Your parents saved that money for you and just you."

But Danny was adamant. "You're using all your money on a lawyer for me. Use some of mine on a suit for you. You can do that. Can't you? I probably won't be going to any college anytime soon anyway."

And then, Uncle Ian was smiling through his tears as he shook his head. "How the hell did you turn out to be such a good kid with such a lousy uncle?"

Danny laughed bitterly. "Believe it or not… I think a lot of it was Mickey."

Uncle Ian sniffed and wiped his eyes before reaching out and embracing his nephew. Surprised only for a moment, Danny raised his hands and hugged him back.

* * *

She was awake and allowed to see visitors at around one o'clock. Within that time, Grissom had eventually convinced Warrick to go home and see his family for a few hours, with the help of a scolding phone call from his grandmother. Greg and Catherine were the first ones to rush up to their room, beating out Grissom, Nick and Brass by a good ten seconds as they both rushed to either side of the bed. She laughed at the sight of them, and her laughter was like Christmas bells.

"Look," Catherine said, gesturing at the slings she and Sara both wore. "We're twins."

"How quaint," Sara remarked with a smirk.

"When are you out of here, Sara?" Greg asked. "I want to take you… anywhere. Where do you want to go?"

Sara laughed again as Grissom appeared in the doorway followed by Nick and Brass. Her smile faded a little at the sight of them, her eyes trained on Grissom. He held eye-contact with her momentarily before looking away again.

"Rumor has it," Sara said, still watching Grissom, "that you saved us all, Greg."

"Including me," Nick said, stepping into the room with Brass. "But that's a story for another time. It's your day, Sara."

"It's _all_ of our day," Sara corrected. "It's Christmas, for God's sake." She raised a weak hand at Brass. "Hey."

"Hurts like a bitch, doesn't it?" Brass said with a small smile.

Sara laughed lightly. "You would know."

"Now maybe you'll listen to me when I tell you to wait for backup," Brass returned.

"Leave it to you to make sure I learn something from this," Sara replied. "Where's Warrick?"

"He's on his way in," Grissom replied, speaking for the first time since entering. "I sent him home to spend time with his family."

"Good," Sara said. "They need him more than I do. So Greg asks a good question. How long am I stuck in this place?"

"At least two weeks," Grissom said. "Before they even think of discharging you. It depends on your physiotherapy and barring any infections…"

"We'll see if I can't make that happen any faster," Sara replied.

"Always anxious to get up on your feet, aren't you?" Grissom asked quietly.

"I had one hell of a New Year's party planned," Sara explained. "Like I'm going to spend it here?"

"You'll have to," Greg said. "But don't worry. We'll come and have a party with you. And if you need someone to kiss come midnight…"

"I think I'll be OK, Greg," Sara said, laughing lightly. "What happened to the kids? Danny and Mickey?"

Greg looked away and became exceptionally taciturn. Catherine placed a kind hand on Sara's left arm.

"Sweetie, Mickey's dead," she said. "And Danny's been arrested."

"Go easy on him," Sara said quickly. She looked at Brass. "Would they?"

"It's not up to me," he said with a helpless shrug. "I heard the D.A. is going to charge him as a juvenile for accessory, and a good word from you could help."

At that moment, Warrick skidded around the corner of the room, bearing a pink cardboard box. He stopped and stood in the middle of the room, beaming at Sara.

"Since we ate all of the other pie," he said. "I picked up one for you on my way over."

She looked delighted. "It better be damn good pie," she said. "I've been _shot_."

He laughed and approached the bed, opening it to reveal a still steaming pumpkin pie. "Fresh from the bakery," he said. He looked over at Grissom. "The only thing better is homemade."

Grissom rolled his eyes.

But Sara was grinning from ear to ear as she closed her eyes and inhaled the scent. "Mm…" she said. "Pie…"

Catherine took the pie from Sara, along with the stack of paper plates and plastic utensils he'd brought and began to cut the pie.

"I wouldn't give that to Catherine if I was you," Warrick said as Catherine served up a piece. "You should have seen what she did to the last pie."

Catherine glared at Warrick as she handed Sara her first piece.

"Don't worry, Catherine," Sara said, taking the pie. "I trust you."

Catherine smiled.

They hung around for a long time, once again chatting and speaking amiably. Nick even managed to find _It's A Wonderful Life_ playing on TCM on Sara's TV. Seeing as both he and Sara had been searching for it all over the networks the night before, they shared a triumphant grin. So while the movie played and the pie quickly disappeared, they spent most of the day together, although Warrick did have to slip out to spend the evening with his 'other' family. Catherine eventually left too, wishing to spend the rest of the day with Lindsey and her family and pick up a few last minute gifts for her daughter and her mother. Greg had gotten a call from his mother, and after saying "Merry Christmas," he tried to get rid of her as politely as possible. But when this proved useless he stepped outside for a more private conversation. Nick, too, received a call from his whole family in Texas, who said "_Merry Christmas, ya old dog!_" so loudly in unison that everyone in the room could hear the celebrating Stokes family, and Nick even went a little red.

After Nick hung up, he looked at Sara and Grissom. "I should be heading home, too," he said looking at his watch. "It's been a long day and if I'm looking forward to my day off. It will be spent sleeping, I can assure you." He looked at Sara. "You gonna be OK, darlin'?" he asked.

"I'll be fine," she replied with a strong smile. And with a nod at Grissom, Nick disappeared out of the door.

Finally alone, his hands deep in his pockets and his eyes on the floor, Grissom approached Sara's bed for the first time. When at the foot of it, he looked up and smiled at her.

"Hey, stranger," she said, in a tiny voice. "You've stayed so far away from me all day, someone might think you were feeling awkward."

He sighed and looked down again, straightening out the sheets on her bed. "You really scared me today, Sara," he said quietly.

"Nah," Sara said, waving it away like it was nothing. "A wound like that? You knew I'd be OK."

"Logically, the odds were in your favor…" Grissom said slowly. "But the thing about statistics is, the odds of you dying of complications from the wound exist for a reason."

"You didn't come with me in the ambulance," she said. "Did you?"

"I couldn't," he replied defensively, although her tone was anything but accusatory. "I… there was a scene, and the others were there, and… They told me you'd be OK. And then this whole fiasco with Nick… I…"

"Keep the secret," Sara said, nodding. "Even until the end."

"It hurt," he said, "that I couldn't be with you. That I couldn't show how much I _wanted _to be with you."

"You have stoicism down to an art form," Sara said with a smile. "Come closer. I miss you."

He did, his hand trailing on the side of the bed until her hand found his and clutched it tightly. He looked up at her. "I don't lie," he said quietly, "for anyone. Except you."

Her thumb stroked the top of his hand. "You lie well," she said softly, her quiet tones luring his face closer so he could hear her better. And perchance she could steal a kiss…

He pushed her hair back from her pale face and laughed lightly. "I'm so glad that everything worked out tonight," he said.

Their faces were inches apart. "Merry Christmas, Gil," Sara whispered.

He leaned his head against hers. She closed her eyes…

The door opened.

They broke apart instantly, and Sara withdrew her hand as they saw Greg walk in, putting his phone away.

"Hey, where'd everybody go?" he asked, looking around. "Am I interrupting something?"

"No," Grissom and Sara said abruptly.

He looked confused, then shuffled awkwardly on the spot. "I'll just… go…" he said, gesturing towards the door.

"No, you stay," Grissom said, making Sara turn her head sharply to look at him. "I'll go."

"Grissom—" Sara began to protest.

"I'm the only one without the day off tomorrow," he said to her quietly. "I'll have to sleep sometime."

He patted her on the arm and gave her a pursed-lipped smile before walking towards the door. He paused as he passed Greg and the two exchanged looks before Grissom continued on and left, leaving Greg and Sara alone.

Greg took a deep breath and held it. Sara thought he was going to turn blue. But then, he let out a long sigh. "You two, uh… I mean, you guys looked like… You were pretty close…"

Sara couldn't help herself. She closed her eyes and started to laugh at the irony. After all they'd done to make sure no one ever knew… Her eyes stung and her throat constricted as the tears leaked out of her eyes.

Greg looked horrified. "Oh my God, I didn't mean— I'm so sorry, Sara!"

She laughed harder and wiped the tears away from her eyes. "No, Greg, no, I'm just so tired and my arm hurts like hell. It's not you." She smiled at him for good measure. But he looked away from her and chewed on his lip, wringing out his hands. She sighed. "What did your mother say?"

He seemed to grow even more uncomfortable. "Oh, she, uh…" He rubbed his arms as if he was cold. "She wanted to know why I didn't come home and see them this year. She… she wanted to make sure I was around good people. That I was safe…"

Sara smiled. "You're always safe with me," she said quietly, trying to reassure him. She didn't like it when Greg was uncomfortable. That tended to be when he made his most obnoxious jokes. "Or rather," she said as an afterthought, "I feel safe… with you."

He looked at her then, confusion etched in his eyes. "Sara, I think I should go…"

"I know you shot him, Greg," she whispered. "I know you saved Catherine's life. And mine."

"I don't want to talk about it—" Greg began.

"Well I _do_," Sara snapped as he backed away towards the door. "Come here, Greg. I want to tell you something."

He seemed exceptionally nervous as he reluctantly adhered to her request and approached her, falling into a chair by her bed. "Sara, can we please just not…"

"You did the right thing," she assured him.

"Catherine said that too," Greg muttered.

"Catherine's smart," Sara said. "You should listen to her once in a while."

He gave her a sly smirk, his old self shining through. "Why? You never do."

Sara frowned. "You wouldn't have done it if you had any other choice. I was stupid. I went in there unprepared. You and Catherine were smart. You knew exactly what you were dealing with and went in there prepared to do whatever you two had to in order to solve the problem. And you did. I'm proud of you, Greg."

"That makes one of us," Greg mumbled.

"Greg, you didn't—"

"You don't know what it's like!" Greg interrupted sharply. She was silenced. He calmed down. "I mean… you don't know what it's like… to know you stopped someone from breathing. I've done it… three times now."

"Twice," Sara corrected, confused.

He shook his head. "Three times," he said again. "I didn't… I didn't pull the trigger, I didn't kill my sister. I know that, now. Even my mother knows that, I think. But she and I both share a common fear of… of me. The things I'd be willing to… to sacrifice to save myself. Nick, he…" Greg closed his eyes and held his breath a minute. Sara surmised he was trying not to cry. He exhaled and continued. "He was given the option tonight of… of dying, or trading my life for his. And do you know what the stupid son of a bitch did? He tried to kill himself. To save… to save me. And do you want to know the funny thing? I…" He closed his eyes tightly and looked away. He seemed determined not to lose his composure in front of her. After another second he went on. "I can't say I would have done the same for him."

He put his hand over his eyes and looked away from her then and she heard the smallest sound escape his lips almost like a stifled sob he was trying to force back down. When he pushed his hand back into his hair he smiled at Sara broadly, but his red eyes glimmered in the buzzing florescent light. "Jesus, look at me," he said. "I'm a wreck. It's Christmas Day, you've been shot, I just interrupted what looked to be a very private moment between you and Grissom, and here I am pouring my stupid heart out to you. This is stupid."

Sara returned the smile and her hand moved to grasp his as she squeezed it tightly. "You held my hand," she said. "In the library, you were holding my hand so tightly I thought you would snap it right off."

He pulled away from her grip. "I was…"

"Terrified," Sara finished for him. "And to be honest, so was I. Greg… we do the strangest things when we're scared. It can bring out the best… and the worst in us. But it doesn't make us anything less than human. You were terrified when you hit the gas in that alley and hit Demetrius James. But you saved that man's life. You were terrified when you came into the library. You were terrified when you shot Mickey. But you saved Catherine's life. And mine. And I'll be that when your sister died, you were terrified too."

"He said that… if I didn't let her go, he'd kill me too…" Greg whispered.

"Then I think it's pretty obvious whose life you saved that night," Sara replied. "And I, for one, am glad you didn't play the martyr. And I'll bet your mother is too."

Greg smiled at her and let out another sigh as he took her hand and they interlaced fingers. "I think I love you, Sara Sidle," he said, his voice airily mocking.

She laughed and squeezed his hand. "Why, Greg Sanders who would have guessed you were a hopeless romantic," she returned.

He looked away from her, his eyes refusing to meet hers as he retracted his hand again and rose to his feet. "I should really go," he said. "I, uh… I really have no excuse other than I'm tired and want to crash. I'll see you later?"

She nodded. "You better."

He made to leave when Sara gasped. "No, Greg, wait!"

He stopped and looked at her curiously. "What's up?" he asked.

She was pointing at the TV screen. "This is my favorite part, you have to watch it with me!"

Greg approached the bed again and looked up at the TV. George Bailey was proudly declaring to Bert the policeman that his mouth was bleeding. He smiled as he humored Sara and stood there, watching the end of the movie with her. As the end of the movie came, and George Bailey was singing loudly and happily as his daughter told him about bells and angels, Greg felt Sara's hand squeezing his again. He looked down to see her beaming at him.

"Thanks," she said, "for staying. You can't watch this movie alone, it's too depressing."

He nodded. "Any time," he said.

And somewhere out in the hall, the bell at the reception desk rang. Inexplicably.


	19. Epilogue

_**Author's Note:**_ About the bell ringing in the last chapter: Some of you got it, others didn't, and I apologize. Generally, I footnote my culture references, but I felt that would have lost something if I did. The bell ringing is taken directly from the Jimmy Stewart movie being watched in the last chapter, _It's A Wonderful Life. _The script includes a "saying" which I have never heard anywhere outside of that movie, but ALMOST became the chapter title to last chapter ("Every Time A Bell Rings"). In fact, I might just change the title now. Anyways, the saying is, "Every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings" and the "angel" in question in the movie was Clarance, who helped George Bailey see that he had a great effect on people and stopped him from killing himself. After George's daughter says this, (or before, I don't recall), a bell on the Christmas tree randomly rings.

About Nick/Cath: You may be disappointed (or happy depending on your ship) to know that there is no Nick/Cath section in this epilogue (insert sad emoticon here). But it IS referenced on what the two are doing now, and I ALMOST included a scene with them at the airport but inevitably decided against it. Probably because of my aversion to writing Nick/Cath scenes. Hopefully the news on what they're doing now will suffice and let you know what they inevitably ended up deciding to do about their complicated relationship.

About More from Me: I have a number of projects in the works. I don't want to preview any of them, for fear of letting you down if you see something good (IE, pull another "Nevada Devil"). Know that I will not post something unless I intend to finish it but I may mention a project I'm currently excited about that never ends up getting finished. Hopefully, it will be either So Close To Home or Defining Death or something completely different and out of the blue. _Maybe _the Inbetweens. If I feel like it...

On an (somewhat) related note, the fan fiction awards are in process over at livejournal, so go nominate/vote for stuff. Sept. 15 is the last day to nominate (I know, way to tell you late, huh?) but voting begins soon, so YAY. Oh, and I'm nominated. So that's cool too.

* * *

  


Epilogue: One Year Later

The flame burnt his fingers and he cursed under his breath as he shook out his hand and dropped the match, but the candle was lit and burnt dimly in the surrounding dusk that spilled in through the window of the tree house. Danny smiled.

Still wearing his bright orange community service vest, he hadn't even gone home to Susan yet. He had to make a stop here, to his old haunts, back in the day when this tree house was his only sanctuary, the only place he really felt safe. He knelt down in front of the candle and wiped his hands on his jeans, looking through the window at the setting sun skeptically. Clouds were rolling in. It could rain. Maybe even snow. Most probably a combination of both, which would turn into slush on the streets. It didn't snow last year. He kind of hoped for a white Christmas. It would make things different this year. It would mark the things he had done right this year.

He bit his lip and looked at the candle. Did he have time? He looked at his watch. He didn't have to be home for half an hour. He would risk it. She wouldn't mind if he was a little late for dinner. She never did.

He took a framed picture out from his jacket and propped it up behind the candle, which flickered off of the glass. He had stolen this picture from the yearbook room before he and Mickey had been expelled. Mickey had him in a headlock, teasing him again, like he always used to do. Danny's smile broadened to hold back the tears he felt gathering in the back of his eyes.

He somehow knew inherently that Mickey loved him very much. He didn't know why. Mickey had never said the word "love" to or about anyone, and yet if Mickey had ever loved anyone, it had been Danny. Whatever else Mickey may have been, he was not inhuman. All he had really wanted from Danny was Danny's love in return. Danny figured it was a bigger blow to him than he had let on when Mickey had figured out Danny was straight. It was probably why Mickey had acted out like he did, why he wanted to kill Sara and Catherine and Greg. He was angry. And an angry Mickey often did things that Danny regretted.

Mickey rarely spoke of anything personal, let alone his feelings. Danny never really knew what exactly happened with that teacher. He had assumed molestation by the way Mickey had coldly described it.

"He did things," Mickey had told Danny reluctantly. "He did things that… that I didn't want."

In truth, Danny was never sure of anything that happened to Mickey. Mickey had never spoken of his family, of his brother and sister, only that they had abandoned him and were ashamed of him. And he rarely ever said the word 'love' about anything other than beer and video games.

And when Sara had suggested that he loved Danny…

He knew it was true. Somehow, he just knew. In the looks Mickey would give him. In the way he had faced the tyrannical Kyle Denton after Kyle had stolen Danny's sweatshirt. Mickey hadn't gotten the sweatshirt back, but he _had_ succeeded in giving Kyle a broken finger and a split lip, though Mickey himself had come out of the brawl with a black eye and some bruised ribs. Kyle had never bothered Danny again after that.

It was strange the things Mickey would do for him. The way Mickey acted around him. Mickey was coarse and rugged by nature, but around Danny his demeanor always softened, and he always seemed to let down his guard around Danny. Danny never really noticed it until after Mickey was gone how different Mickey acted around him.

He was alone. He was confused. He was scared. And Danny had betrayed him. And not by talking to Sara, no, that betrayal was forgivable. Danny had betrayed him by giving up on him the moment Sara had been shot. When Mickey had shot Sara, there was no good left in him that Danny could see. _That's_ why Danny hadn't immediately run to his body. _That's_ why he'd had eyes only for Sara. _That's_ why he hadn't cared that Greg had killed him.

But now he did.

Now that he had time to reflect on all the things Mickey had done for him…

They had been each other's only friend in the world. And Danny had turned his back on him the minute Mickey had made his last desperate mistake.

He smiled sadly at the photograph, the flame of the candle reflecting in the glass of it. He looked up at his wooden sanctuary, his makeshift house of worship. This tiny little tree house was the best home he had ever known, before he had gone to live with Susan. And in a way… he missed it. He missed the feel of it. The cold nights sleeping in it, next to Mickey. The smell of it. The smell of Mickey.

In his own, strange way, Danny felt that he had loved Mickey too. Maybe not in the same way that Mickey had loved him and yet… maybe so. Danny would never be sure. All he knew was that he missed him. And that he was sorry.

There was a sound behind him of someone climbing the ladder and for one brief moment Danny's heart leapt up into his throat because he thought it was Mickey coming to ask him to go steal some beer from the local 7-11.

It wasn't Mickey.

But it wasn't a disappointment.

She folded her arms on the floor of the tree house, her feet still on the ladder as she rested her head on her arms and smiled at him. "Hey. Susan told me you would probably be here."

He grinned. "I'm sorry— am I late? I thought I still had time…"

"No," she replied. "I just wanted to see how you were doing."

"What's for dinner?" he asked her.

"Roast beef," she replied. "I mean, for you. I'll stick with some string beans and mashed potatoes."

"I don't know how you can stand to be a vegetarian," he said. "I love roast beef."

"Gil sure makes a mean one, too," she said. "Or, so I hear."

"I look forward to trying it," he returned.

"What have you got there?" she asked, looking at the photo behind him.

He sighed. "Mickey," he replied. "I… Is it bad that I miss him? I know he nearly killed you and your friends but I just—"

"No, Danny," Sara interrupted her eyes sincere. "No, it's not bad at all."

He smiled again.

"Susan tells me you're going to UNLV next year? On a scholarship no less?" She sounded impressed.

Danny nodded. "I wrote an essay… about living with Ian. And Mickey. And my crimes. Apparently, I impressed them."

"Well," she said, "you have cleaned up your act a lot in a year. You and Ian both. I hear he's ready to take you back? Are you ready to go?"

"Ian means well…" Danny began slowly. "But he doesn't… He _didn't_ understand before. He was only bad when he drank. And now that he's not drinking… Still, I can't go back until I finish my community service and Susan tells the courts I'm OK. She's kind of like my parole officer _and_ my foster mom. It's weird."

"It's a far better deal than juvy, wouldn't you say?" she returned.

He nodded with a grin. "Oh, way better. Glad to be out of there."

Sara looked at her watch. "Come on," she said. "Greg will probably be over there by now."

"Greg's coming?" Danny sounded nervous. Greg _had_ held him at gunpoint, though for good reason. And Greg had been the one to kill Mickey, though also for good reason. He hadn't seen the young CSI since last year. Had Greg forgiven him? Moreover… Had he forgiven Greg?

Sara didn't seem to understand his concern as she nodded eagerly. "Mm hm! And he's anxious to see you, so let's get out of here."

" 'Anxious to see…' I'm not sure if I'm so anxious to see him," Danny said, warily.

She rolled her eyes. "He's thought about you too, believe it or not. We talk about you sometimes. He asks me how you're doing, if you've gotten better since last year… if you've found better friends…"

Danny looked back at the candle that burned in front of the picture of Mickey and his heart lurched. He remembered watching Mickey turn. He remembered their eyes had met. And Mickey had raised his gun and…

He could forgive Greg.

He could forgive Mickey.

He wondered now if he could forgive himself.

"Better friends…" he mumbled, then looked at Sara again. "I found you, didn't I?"

She nodded. "You sure did."

"Is anyone else going to be there?" Danny asked. "I mean… other than you and Gil and Greg? Is… is Catherine going to be there?"

"No," Sara said. "She's…" She smiled broadly and laughed slightly. "She and her daughter are spending Christmas in Texas."

"What's in Texas?" Sara asked.

"Apparently one big family that's been dying to meet her," Sara replied. "She's there with her boyfriend."

"Oh…" Danny said. "Good for her."

Sara agreed with a nod. "But Captain Brass will be there. You remember Captain Brass, don't you?"

"Sure," Danny said. "He seemed… OK…"

Sara chuckled. "He takes some getting used to, but you'll love him, I promise." She looked at her watch. "We should really get going. Come on, slow poke."

He watched her climb back down the ladder and made a move to follow when he stopped and looked back at the candle and photograph. Taking a deep breath, he held it a moment before blowing out the candle and tucking the photograph into his jacket. He then followed Sara down the ladder and to a warm Christmas dinner with friends. And family.


End file.
